The Children of Winter
by LadyCassie
Summary: Winterfell, the ancestral home of House Stark, the seat of the King and Queen of Winter. King Jon Targaryen and his Queen Sansa Stark. They had been beloved by all, even those in the south but none loved them more than their children. (sequel to The Winter Queens Statue.)
1. The Children

_**I do not own Game of Thrones**_

 _ **The last part to 'The Winter Queen's Statue'**_

* * *

Wintefell, the ancestral home of House Stark, the seat of the King and Queen of Winter. King Jon Targaryen and his Queen Sansa Stark. They had been beloved by all, even those in the south but none loved them more than their children.

Although he was the firstborn child of Winters King and Queen, Rickon Targaryen would never sit upon the throne in Winterfell. He'd never be claimed as a Stark because as the first born of his Father's children, it was him who would travel south and take the iron throne.

Only his siblings who were 'graced', as their aunt Daenerys said, with Targaryen traits were given the name Targaryen. The only Targaryen trait Rickon had, were his eyes, but that was more than enough for him to be named King once Daenerys stepped down.

The Targaryen name was not one loved in the North, and even with them following his Father, the North refused to follow Rickon once he'd taken his place in Kingslanding. Instead, choosing his younger brother Robb Stark, named for the Young wolf King who ruled before his Father.

Robb and Jon Stark, the twins, were everything a Stark was meant to be in the eyes of the North. They both looked like their Father, their coloring that of a true Stark.

His sister Lyra was said to mirror their aunt Arya, yet the two couldn't be more different. Lyra for all her Stark coloring was a quite girl, preferring to spend her time off with their uncle Bran, locked away in a keep where she could read about history to her heart's content.

Eddard, Edd to most or Ned to only Sansa, had been the last child to have been born with Stark coloring. Edd had come into the world with the whole of the North attending a feast in memory of Lord Eddard Stark, and so had been named after his Grandsire upon opening his gray Stark eyes.

Where Lyra Stark was quite, Marg Targaryen was as fierce and wild as any other wolf born in the North. Only her platinum blonde hair and amethyst eyes set her apart from her siblings. She was said to take after their uncle Brandon Stark, a warrior with a fiery temper, ruthless when it came to battle, many men even refusing to train with her.

Daenerys Targaryen, the last child born to Winters King and Queen. Of them all, it is said that she was the truest Targaryen of them all, having stolen the life of her mother as she entered the world, like her namesake.

Then there was Rickon, the eldest and the only one to have been born with his mother's coloring. His amethyst eyes were the brightest of his siblings, telling all just who he was, for none could mistake his red hair and purple eyes.

* * *

"You're going south?" Jon asked, standing in the doorway of Rickon's room, watching as his eldest son packed away his belongings into a trunk.

Amethyst eyes flickered towards Jon, the hatred within them burning bright like dragon fire. "I've never belonged in the North, and without Mother, I have no reason to stay."

Jon gave a tried sign, his children had barely been back in Winterfell two days and already Rickon was trying to get as far away from it as possible. "Don't say such things, Winterfell is your home."

"I'm not a wolf, Father." Rickon hissed, "I'm a dragon and I won't hide away in the North pretending that I'm anything other than what I am."

"You're my son," Jon growled, straightening.

Rickon shook his head, a smile gracing his lips he sneered at Jon. "No, I'm my Mother's son." He knocked shoulders with Jon as he pushed past him, having nothing else to say to his Father.

Every corner of the castle rang with his Mother's laughter, every room brought with it a treasured memory and every second he stayed, was a reminded that she was truly gone.

Rickon had never been the same as his siblings. Born during the great Winter, it's known that Sansa birthed him alone, Jon off fighting in the war which brought about the summer which they now lived.

Lord Davos often told him how the Southern Queen outright asked for Rickon upon seeing his eyes. When asked what his father had said, Davos had given him an answer and to this day, he can still remember the answer Davos had spoken to him.

"It was your Mother, actully. Your mother would have found a way to burn the Southern Queen had she tried to take you from her. She's a brave woman, your mother, you should be thankful that you'll grow up having known what it feels like to be loved, others aren't so lucky."

Knowing from a young age that he would one day have to travel south, Rickon hadn't taken the time he had left with Sansa lightly. Instead of traveling the North to visit the other Lords with his Father and the Twins, Rickon had stayed behind in Winterfell, learning from Maester Tarly what it would mean to be a King, not that he cared for it much, for the real reason he stayed behind was Sansa.

"So your leaving?" Marg questioned, still dressed in her training armor, the smell of stale sweat lingering on her skin.

Targaryen's, for the longest time it had just been the two of them, the outsiders of the North. They'd never truly been accepted by the North, and of the two of them, it should have been Marg who wanted to get away most of all. Marg, who was the complete image of what a true Targaryen should look like.

"We're Starks, we belong in Winterfell." She hissed pushing forward into his space, barely leaving an inch between them.

"Your not Stark, I'm not Stark, and no one will ever consider us Starks." It was cruel, Rickon wouldn't deny that as he watched as something cracked within Marg's eyes, but he didn't care as he pushed past her the same way he'd done his father.

* * *

Marg swallowed, her hand tightening into a fist, her nails drawing blood that slowly dribbled to the cold stone floor.

Rage burned within her, and only the fact that she knew that her brother was hurting stopped her from chasing him down.

"Stupid, why are you crying?" Blinking, she wiped away the few tears which had managed to escape her eyes.

Rickon seemed under the impressions that it was only him who'd lost his mother, but Marg had loved Sansa too.

"I hear Robin Arryn threw a fit when he heard about the Queen," A female voice spoke and Marg quickly hid, unwilling to let anyone see her moment of weakness.

"He's on his way here, should reach Winterfell within the next day or two. "

Maids. Gossiping maids, there was nothing worse in Marg's option.

"Pepper's from the Vale, she said that Prince Rickon looks very much like the Queen's cousin, a Tully,"

It is silent, the maids probably checking that there is no one to hear them.

"What of the baby?" The words are whispered as if they are speaking of something that should not be spoken of.

"A Targaryen," The words were spat as if saying them left a bad taste in her mouth. "Only the King and Prince Ned take to visiting her."

"They should send her South, with Prince Rickon. It's where she belongs." Came the hissed reply but before they finally left the hall to carry out their duties, there was a final whisper. "Dragon's don't belong in the North."

It was then silent, except for the tiny splatter of blood which dripped from Marg's fingertips onto the floor. She didn't know how long she'd stayed hidden in a little alcove, but from out of nowhere, there was a piercing wail.

Eyes lifting from the floor she searched the corridor, and it was then she realized that she hadn't even bothered to take note that she was doors away from the nursery.

The cries left unanswered were what slowly pulled Marg into the room. It had been a number of years since Marg had stepped foot in the nursery, not since Edd had been born. It looked exactly the same, if not for the baby crying in the cradle Marg would have destroyed it all.

A place once filled with her Sansa's laughter and sweet voice should not exist without her mother Sansa there to fill it. Checking over her shoulder that no one was coming, she slowly drew near to the cradle, peering down at her sister inside.

Daenerys, she been told was her sister's name and like the maids had said, she had the Targaryen look, just like Marg. It was strange at first, to look at someone who clearly mirrored her own appearance and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had once looked like her sister, who had grown quite as she looked up at Marg.

"She doesn't do much," She swung around to see her youngest brother peering at her from the doorway.

"Most babies don't," Edd, he'd grown while they been away and he'd been here alone shouldering the death of his mother without anyone to turn too.

"Mother said that I'm to look after her," He takes great pride in it she can see and why wouldn't he? If Sansa had asked the same of Marg, she would have put all her feeling aside, but it wasn't Marg Sansa had asked, so for now, she remains undecided on her sister.

"Do you think, perhaps, I might help you too?" She won't allow Edd to suffer alone.

He regards her with a frowned brow, clearly mulling over her offer, "Well, I guess you can help," She nods, hiding her smile as she returns to looking at her sister.

"You know, I remember when it was you in this crib. I used to stand over you like this and watch you for hours, you didn't do much back then either." She gives him a cheeky grin, which causes him to giggle as he draws closer.

"Do you...do you think that Dany will be sad?"

"Why would she be sad?" She asks, and wonders if it was Edd who shorted her name?

"Mother will never sing to her,"

"You and I could sing to her?"

His shoulders shrugged as he looked over to the rocking chair. "It won't be the same." His voice is soft, fading away as he speaks.

No one but Sansa had ever been allowed to sit in the rocking chair, her Stark blanket still hung over the back of the chair, ready to be pulled around whoever was lucky enough to be seated on her lap.

"Your right, It will never be the same,"

* * *

Outside the door of the nursery, leaned against the wall, he listened to Marg and Edd converse in the room. He cared little for the baby within the room, no, his reason for being here was Edd. Edd, who had watched over Sansa before she had been brought down into the crypts.

For Robb Stark, all his life he'd grown up knowing that one day he would be King in the North, like his Father. Yet, it was his Mothers name which he carried, not that he wanted the Targaryen name. He was fine being a Stark, the first Stark born as far as the North was concerned.

He didn't hate his Targaryen siblings, if anything, he pitied them. Rickon, his elder brother would one day have to leave the North, and Marg, no matter how much she tried to be a wolf, would always be a dragon. Daenerys would never know a Mothers love. Right now, Robb was still lost in his own grief to pity her, but one day he would.

Sansa Stark had been something different to each of them, always a Mother but always a little bit more than that. For Rickon, she had been the sun, the only thing in the North which could bring a smile to his lips, to cause his laughter to echo throughout the castle. Sansa had been his world, and Robb wondered if his brother would ever overcome his grief.

To both Jon and Robb, Sansa had been a watcher, always there to keep them from trouble but never ruining their fun. During their time at Bear Island, they quickly learned that life without their mother was dull and boring. No song sounded the same whenever it fell from the lips of someone over then Sansa, and each time they turned to tell her of how their day had gone, she wasn't there. In the end, they'd both be desperate to return to Winterfell.

For Marg, the relationship between her and Sansa had been different, so much like their Aunt, Robb hadn't thought much of the bond between the eldest daughter and Mother, until one night he'd came upon a surprising sight. Both had been sat under the Gods tree in the garden. Marg had been laid out, her head resting in Sansa's lap, allowing her mother to run her fingers through her thick blonde hair. It wouldn't be the last time Robb would come across the pair, but never did he interrupt, because Marg clearly enjoyed the time spent alone with Sansa.

Lyra, who was still locked away in her room was probably was the only one to show her emotions, she'd been crying none stop. Almost every day of her life Lyra had been there next to Sansa, whether it be sewing, praying, or simply just walking Winterfell, it had always been with Sansa by her side. It would take time for Lyra to come to terms with Sansa's death, and unlike Rickon who couldn't deal with his grief, Robb would be there for Lyra when she was ready to face the world again.

Edd, Robb had been watching over his youngest brother since he'd arrived back in Winterfell, although he'd been unable to utter a single word to the youngest Stark. When Rickon's cries of anguish had reached those still stood in the courtyard, in was the crypts which Robb found himself seeking out, only to find Edd. He'd been talking to the statue of their mother, and it was that moment which had truly broken Robb's heart.

"Father said I shouldn't have yelled at Lord Dustin, but he called me Ned, only you call me Ned." Robb had smirked, trust Ned to yell at a Lord over his Mother's name for him. "I look after Daenerys, just like you asked and I gave her a name too, Dany. I promise that I won't let anyone else use it, it will be her special name, for only you and me." It was quite. So, peering around he could see Edd hugging the bottom of the statue, one of his hands holding that of their Mothers outheld hand, he'd fallen asleep. He'd then creep forward, taking his sleeping brother into his arms, and had stood facing the stone figure of his mother. She was smiling, and if he didn't know better, Robb would have though she was smiling at the simple act of him holding Edd.

"I'll protect him, I'll protect them all." He'd made a promise in the crypts that day and he would rather die than go back on his word. Because it wasn't a vow he'd made to just anyone, it was a vow a made to Sansa Stark, the Queen of Winter, the Mother of Wolves and Dragons, but mostly, it was because he loved her as much as she had loved him and that hadn't changed one bit.

* * *

Her room had once been a place Lyra avoided if possible. She'd always hated being alone, fearing what laid in the shadows. It wasn't until her uncle Bran had come speaking about gifts passed down through Stark bloodline that Lyra realized that her dreams really did mean something.

A green seer, Bran had called her, someone like himself. She could see into the past and for the longest time, she'd tried to force her gift away, not seeing its use, until now. Now, she'd give anything to control her gift. Try as she might she was unable to find her mother in the past, having only found her once, when her mother had been nothing but a newborn, cradled in the arms of her Grandfather, Ned Stark.

Her Father Jon clearly favored the looks of his uncle, and her mother that of her own mother, Catelyn. It wasn't the mother that she'd wanted to see, but none the less, she stayed to watch over the newborn.

She'd stayed in the nursery for what was probably hours, just peering down at her Mother. It didn't matter that no one could see or hear her, for all that she spoke was for Sansa's ear's alone.

She was angry, angry at her mother, but she couldn't very well yell at a baby, so instead, she sat on the floor, her back leaning against the cradle and began to let loose everything that was in her heart.

"I made a mistake, and I don't know how to make it right again." She began, her hands twisting the fabric of her dress. "I told Father that I hated him and that it should have been him who died." She paused, biting her lips before she continued. "If you were here, you'd tell me how to make it better, but I don't think you'll be ready to offer any advice for another number of years." She finished with a tried sigh, listening to the soft breaths coming from her mother's tiny form.

She'd never went a day in her life without her mother, and only one trip south was that it had taken for Sansa to be taken from her, taken from them all. She'd been there that day, the day her father had asked her mother about having another child. She blamed him, had said so right to his face when he'd knocked on her door not a day ago.

She hadn't meant a word of it, but the words had spilled out and she couldn't take them back. Jon had been clearly hurt by Lyra's words, his eye's giving away just how much the words had affected him.

The door cracking open had Lyra lifting her eyes to watch the tall, broad-shouldered figure of her grandfather creep into the room. His face was long and brooding like her fathers, but it was Edd she saw when she looked at her grandfather. His voice was a deep gravely northern accent, slightly hushed as he bent over the cradle to watch his daughter.

"My sweet Sansa, we all make mistake's, but you, my love, are my greatest achievement."

A series of knocks against her door were what pulled her back into her body.

"Lyra, I brought you dinner," It was her brother, Jon, again. The only one of her siblings who actually bothered to still try to get her to open the door.

Instead of answering she turned away, willing her mind to dive back into the past where this time, she'd hopefully find her mother at the right age.

* * *

He waited, his hand pressed against the door, hoping that this time around she'd answer him. She didn't and Jon was at a loss of what to do.

'I hate you, it should have been you who died!' She'd shouted at their father and maybe Jon would have agreed with her, only he knew his father well.

Like him and his siblings, his father was suffering. Sansa had always told them stories about how it was their father who saved her, but once his father had told him a different side to the story.

'She alway says that it's me who saved her, but really she saved me. Life was meaningless until she rode into castle black. She saved me, gave me a purpose, gave me something to hold on to again and she gave me each of you.' Jon had never known his father to be anything other than sullen, but when he was surrounded by only his wife and children a different side of him showed. Happiness could be seen gleaming in his father's dark eyes, his laughter which was more than rare was uncontained when surrounded by those he loved.

His Father was a good man, a fair king and so Jon could not hate him for something he had no control over. Death was a cruel part of life. It often felt like death took those who were good, those who were treasured, and left behind those who the world would be better off without. Sansa had been one of the good people, treasured and loved by all who had known her.

Rickon could claim to feel her loss most of all, but Jon knew the truth. His father was the one who truly felt the loss of Sansa most.

"She'll come out when she's ready," His aunt Arya's voice carried from her own room just doors away. Walking toward the open doorway, he stood outside watching as his aunt polished the sword in her lap, never once bothering to look up from her work. "She's like Sansa in that respect,"

His aunt's room was bare of anything other than what was necessary.

"You know, you shouldn't be so hard on Rickon."

This struck a nerve, why was Arya talking to him about Rickon when he hadn't even mentioned his brother.

"I know exactly what all of you are thinking about your brother. And if I didn't know any better, I would be thinking the same."

"Then tell me why he gets to act the way he does? We all miss her! I miss her! And when we need him most he just runs away?"

Arya nodded, a sad smile gracing her lips as stood and walked the short distance to where he stood in the doorway. "Since he was little, Rickon has been told that one day he would go south, that he would be a great King. That was all well and good until he was told that it would be only him who journeyed south." Arya shook her head, the short strands of loose hair gleaming in the light. "Your brother's smart. He realized quickly that one day he would have to leave, and so he decided to make sure that he wouldn't waste a single moment with Sansa. While you and Robb were both off traveling around the North with your father, Rickon was here, making precious memories to take with him south, because he knew that visits would be short and long in between."

He'd never known any of this, never once had it crossed his mind that the reason Rickon didn't leave Winterfell was because one day he wouldn't get to see it anymore. Had things gone differently, had their mother lived, Jon, Robb, and the others would have still seen Sansa every day, still basked in the love she showered upon them, and Rickon? He would have been hundreds of miles away, in a place that wasn't home, surrounded by strangers, and without the one person, he loved most.

"Right now, he's angry and sad," She exhaled, her hand reached up to grip his shoulder.

"He's never going to come back, is he?"

Arya wasn't one for showing her emotions, so the pat on his shoulder was the only answer he would receive before she turned back to the stool and returned to polishing her sword.

* * *

King Rickon Targaryen never again set foot in the North after his mother, The great Winter Queen Sansa Stark's death. His brother Robb Stark would later become King in the North when their Father King Jon stepped down. King Rickon and King Robb were never to see one another again after Rickon left Winterfell.

There is a tale of a war that almost began when Rickon requested that his mother's bones be handed over to him. An army was sent North to recover the long dead Queen and it was only through their brother Jon, that the war did not come to pass. It is unknown how exactly Prince Jon succeeded in stopping the war, but a statue the same as one in Winterfell was later sent South.

King Rickon was quite the painter, his paintings to this day still hang around the Red keep. Visitors queue for hours in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his work, but there is one painting which the King did that is not for public viewing. It is kept hidden in one the tower rooms, where only those of his bloodline might see it.

The Great Winter Queen Sansa Stark is captured in what appears to the nursery of Winterfell. She sits is in a rocking chair, a Stark blanket is wrapped around both her and the baby she cradles to her chest, her fiery hairs hangs loose, her eyes closed, a smile gracing her lips.

Many would believe that baby she cradles in her arms is King Rickon himself, for it's known that he never truly got over the loss of his mother, but his family knows this to be wrong. They know the truth, that the baby is none other than the king's sister, Daenerys Targaryen.

Rickon upon completion of the painting had written a note on the back. 'For my mother, so that she may at last cradle her baby whom she never got the chance to hold.'

Century's later, tales are still told of Winter's Queen, about how she was beloved by all, but it is a fact that none loved them more than her husband, and their children.


	2. Princess Daenerys

_**I do not own Game of Thrones**_

* * *

Stark, the name of those who rule in the North. Known as the Kings and Queens of Winter there is none more famous than King Jon Targaryen and his Queen Sansa Stark. Born from their love were seven children, three Targaryens, and four Starks.

King Rickon Targaryen, first of his name and ruler of the six kingdoms, alongside his sisters Princess's Marg and Daenerys Targaryen, are the only Targaryens in history to have been born in North. Robb Stark, King in the North, alongside his twin Jon, sister Lyra, and brother Eddard are the first Stark's born into the free North.

Their stories have been well documented throughout the ages in which they ruled. To this day people still delight in hearing the same tales that they been told since their childhood, but recently a new story has come light.

After many years of waiting, the Royal Targaryen family have recently decided to shed some light on the Princess Daenerys, and have released a small number of pages from what is known the be the long dead Princess's Dairy.

Of how the Royal Targaryen family came into possession of such an item has yet to be revealed, but such things have been left alone for now, as many eagerly await the chance to read the writings of Princess Daenerys.

* * *

 ** _332AL Dany age 9_**

 ** _My earliest memories of Winterfell are of the stone statue of my mother, stone eyes forever watching over me as I played in the courtyard. My brothers, always there to guide me should I should I ever need them, my sisters, as different as night and day always ready to offer me wisdom, but my favorite memories? We're the one's I shared with my father._**

Every night, no matter the occasion, Jon would come to Dany's room to regale her with tales of Sansa before bed. She would never get the chance to know Sansa, but from the tales that Jon told her, Dany felt as if she truly knew her mother. More often than not, she found herself venturing down into the crypts, seeking out the statute of her mother, where she could speak freely, without anyone other than her mother hearing her words.

"Is my princess ready for a tale?" Jon asked stepping into the room, smiling when he found Dany already laid down in bed waiting. In Dany's eye's, there was no one like her father, he was her hero, no one could compare to him. "So, where shall we go tonight?"

Tapping a finger against her chin Dany though on what she'd like to hear, she didn't notice her Father grinning at her behavior, clearly to caught up in her musings. "To the Gods Wood," She said, nodding her head once she'd decided.

Every night, when Jon asked where she'd like to go, she picked a place such Kings Landing, Bear Island, Winterfell itself and then Jon would tell her whatever memory came to mind of Sansa in said place. Dany's favorite by far were the stories that happened in Gods Woods, for they usually they involved not only her parents but her siblings as well.

Whenever Jon told a story, it was as if Dany could see it her mind's eyes. The scenes all come to life, it was through Jon's words that Sansa was brought to life, for with each word Jon spoke he bred life into Sansa. He gave color to the white statue in the courtyard, gave her a voice which Dany could sometimes hear echoing in the halls, and sometimes, she could fell the ghost of a hand running over her hair just as she slipped into sleep.

Jon gave life to the one person Dany longed to know, but there was so much that Jon didn't know, so much that her siblings didn't know. There was only one person who could surely give Dany what she wanted, and that was Rickon.

One day, she would work up the courage to visit Rickon and seek from him all that he knew of their mother, but for now, Jon's tales were all that she needed. Seeking to know her mother was all well and good, but Dany would not forsake her father for a ghost. Right now, Jon was the most important person in Dany's life and having seen the sorrow her siblings carried at the loss of their mother, she decided that she would never forsake a single moment shared with her father.

* * *

 ** _338AL Dany age 15_**

 ** _My Father was a great man, but I don't think I ever told him as such. It was too late by the time I realized just how a great a man he was, for Jon_ Targaryen had been more than just my Father, he'd been my greatest friend.**

The passing of Jon Targaryen had a major impact on not only his family but on the whole North itself. Although his son Robb had taken over as King in the North a number of years ago, it was still Jon that many of the lords wished to speak to, not so much about problems but for ideal chatter.

Jon Targaryen was a hero, a king, a friend and a Father. He was loved by the people of the North and yet upon his passing Daenerys noted that many of those that came to Winterfell to see her father off, were pleased that he had finally died.

"It's because everyone knows how much your Father has longed for this day," Lord Davos had spoken to her, as she helped him make his way down the steps to watch as her father was placed next to her mother in the crypts.

Once, it had been Lord Davos who lead her down these stairs to allow her to visit her mother in private, for while the statute in the courtyard was simpler to visit, it didn't allow her the privacy she wished to have when she spoke to her mother. Now, having just passed her 15th name day, it was her who needed to help Lord Davos.

"His Grace tells me that you've decided to go South, visit your brother?" Davos asked, a light sheen of sweat coating his face as he paused at the end of the stair to catch his breath. His bread was snowy white and thick, while the hair upon his head was near non-existent in his old age. He'd started to grow down, while Dany herself began to grow taller.

"Marg said that Rickon has wanted to meet me for some time, but...I don't know what I would say to him?"

"You could start with hello," Dany smacked her lips in a pout as Davos grinned back at her, his hand reaching out once more to find her arm.

Dany had never met Rickon, he'd left after her birth, choosing not to see her before he had departed. She didn't blame him, growing up her father had explained what had happened at her birth. For a time, she herself had hated that she was the one who had taken the life of her mother, a woman who everyone loved. Everyone she had ever met loved nothing more than to tell tales of the time they had spent with her mother, Sansa, but none loved to speak of then her her Father, Jon.

As they grew closer to where the others had gathered, Dany immediately took note that it was not Robb nor Jon who held the sword of their father but Ned. Amethyst eyes locked with the Grey eyes of her brother and at once she knew, it was time to say goodbye.

The warmth of Lord Davos's hand against her shoulder, nudging her forward was all that was needed for Dany to join in line with her siblings, Marg's hand intertwining with her own as Dany moved into her place.

Her Father's statue was made of the same white marble as that of her mothers. He stood tall and proud, Ghost's mirror image laid out at his feet and his eyes seemed alive as he regarded those that stood before him. He was different, slightly younger than Dany had ever seen him, but, when placed next to her mother it made sense.

He had told her that Sansa, had been the love of his life. Her smile had brought him more happiness than he had ever dared to explain and the love she gave him, had been the reason he lived, the reason he dared to dream. She had given him children, all of which he loved and she had given him her heart in exchange for his own. If ever there had been a true love story, this was it, the love which her parents had shared. Dany's only wish was that instead of hearing about it, that she could have witnessed it, for even the statute's themselves gazed upon one another with love.

Dany had coveted anything of her mothers, from Sansa's old clothes to any kind of story where she was even mentioned. It was her father who told her to go south, for only Rickon could truly tell Dany want she needed to hear. Rickon who had treasured Sansa just as much as Jon had done, was the only one missing from saying goodbye to their father.

Dany would never claim to understand why Rickon wasn't here, but at the same time, she wouldn't fault him either. Part of Dany hated Jon for leaving them, for always wanting to be reunited with Sansa. Love was strange, it didn't always make sense to Dany.

One thing she knew for sure, was that she loved her father and it was through him that she learned of the love her mother had for her, and in turn, she learned to love her mother. It did not matter that neither was no longer here because as Lord Davos had once told her, carry them both in heart and they shall never truly be gone.

When finally it was over and they were to go back above ground, Dany stayed, she needed once last moment alone with Jon.

"I hate you for leaving me," Dany began, placing her hand on where her mother and father's hands were entwined. "But I am happy because I know that finally, you are with her again."She exhaled, her eyes closing for a brief moment. "My only wish is that one day, I might join you both, and it shall me who will tell you tales of the life I lived." Tears glistened in her eyes, but a smile graced her lips. "Goodbye for now, for I truly believe that we shall meet again."

* * *

 **341 AL Dany age 18**

 **I have now lived in Kings landing three years. Rickon is everything I hoped he would be, beside him, I am home. I often dream that I have returned to Winterfell, with Rickon, and that our family is together once more, never to be separated, but I know that this can never be. The love which my brother felt for my mother haunts him still, and the home which he had once loved is now only a reminder of that which he has lost.**

Kings Landing had been different to anything Dany thought it would be. Unlike Winterfell where everyone knew each other by name and appearance, Kings Landing had so many people that one could never possibly know who was who? It smelled something foul upon arrival, but Dany had somehow managed to forgo the reeking smell that sometimes drifted through the market streets.

Part of her missed the North, but another part of Dany had realized soon after leaving Winterfell that her place, was next to Rickon.

"You look deep in thought," Rickon's voice carried from the balcony above where Dany had taken a seat in the garden. It was her mother's garden, or so she had been told by a Sandor.

Sandor Clegane, known as 'The Hound' was one of the few people in Kings Landing who had known Sansa well enough that he could tell Dany her many stories. Many of the stories Sandor told Dany were dark, during a time when Sansa had suffered greatly at the hands of the false king. It wasn't often she saw Sandor either, for he tended to say to his keep and rarely if ever visited Kings landing, but when he did, Dany spent her time with him, not that he wanted it.

"Not too deep in thought," Was Dany's reply as she tilted her head back to meet eyes colored the same color as her own. "I thought that you were off having lunch with your Queen to be?"

"I thought that you might join us?" Meria appeared, smiling brightly as she leaned over the balcony to see Dany.

Meria Martell was the youngest daughter of Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell and had not been the one they had hoped to marry Rickon too, but Dany could see why Rickon had fallen for her. She was stunning in beauty, her skin bronzed, her eye's a striking green and her hair cropped short, always seemed to catch the light to make in shine no matter which room she entered.

"Come join us," Meria said, although Dany knew that the Queen to be would drag her along if she tried to decline.

"Let me finish my writing and I shall be right up,"

"No need, we shall come to you," Meria called, and Dany watched it amusement as Rickon was pulled away, barely keeping his footing before he was dragged from view.

Rickon was so different from the rest of her siblings, not just in appearance, but in the way he carried himself. You could see what Rickon loved quick clearly, for his heart was on display for all to see and yet, everyone respected him. He was so different from Robb, from her father, from anyone she had ever met before, but Dany loved him.

Any fear she had before coming to Kings Landing had evaporated when Rickon's strong arms had closed around her, his breath hot as he whispered that he had almost given up hope that she would one day come to him. She'd learned that not once had he ever blamed her, that even though he couldn't bear to see her before he left, that she was the last gift their mother had left behind and that he had always loved her.

It was Rickon who gave color to Sansa, who Dany had only ever known as a white marble statute. The first night after meeting Rickon, Dany had dreamt of Sansa, her red hair the same shade as Rickon's flowing with the wind, her skin almost as pale the Gods tree. She had grown up with paintings of Sansa hung from the walls, but seeing Rickon gave Dany a true sense of what Sansa truly had looked like.

A cloth being laid out on the table before her, as well as a maid carrying a tray of snacks, were what tipped Dany off that Rickon and Meria had planned to have lunch with her from the beginning.

"I'll serve the tea when they arrive, Melody," Dany said, dismissing the maid and closing over her diary.

Rickon's laughter echoed as he entered the garden, and with it came a sense of belonging. Rickon was all she had while she stayed in the South, and she was all he had too. Together, they were each other's home's and Dany had never been more thankful to her Father because, without him, she never would have worked up the courage to go South and meet her brother.

* * *

Princess Daenerys Targaryen would go in life to write many tales. She wrote many books throughout her life, some filled with sorrow, other's filled with laughter and joy, but the book she was most well known for was 'The Children of Winter'.

This book which Princess Daenerys filled with stories about her family has been a well-loved book and has continued to be sold throughout the ages. She filled the pages with the tales her Father once told her as a child, the winter parties which she attended with her siblings, the feasts where she sat beside her brother, King Rickon. With each word she wrote, she shared the love, sorrow, and happiness that she encountered throughout her life.

There are statues and paintings dedicated to Winters King and Queen, but it is the writing of their daughter which truly brought to life the King and Queen of Winter once again, and it is through her words that they will continue to live on.


	3. King Robb Stark

**I do not own Game of Thrones**

* * *

Robb Stark, the blazing wolf was King in the North for many decades before his death. The second son of Winter's King and Queen, Robb was given the ancestral home of his Mother, Winterfell, the greatest castle in the North. The first true Stark born to the Free North, alongside his twin, Jon Stark, he was seen as a hope to his people. Beloved like his Father before him, Robb reigned as the King in the North well into his years. While his features changed with age, it is said that the eyes of the wolf shone wild and true until the day of his death.

Unlike his Mother and Father who had been placed next to one another, Robb's wife would not be given a space in the crypts below Winterfell. Instead, stood next to the King in the North was his twin, his brother, Jon Stark. Having entered the world together, they rarely if ever separated, and so in sync with one another the two also departed the world side by side, together.

'Friece is the blood of the wolf that protects the North', were the words engraved under their statue's. The twins of Winters. The first of what would be the start of the new North in which the people never again bowed down to the dragon.

* * *

 **Robb Stark grew up in Winterfell like all the King and Queen's children. It is said that upon sight of him, The North celebrated the return of the Wolf, and drank toasts in both his and his brother's name. 'The twins of Winter' as they were affectionally called were the ones to breathe life back into the North after they had suffered so much death. Even now, their names are still whispered in bedtime stories to the children of the North, for what child, boy or girl, would not wish to hear of the handsome, brave brothers who ruled the North long ago.**

"Mother's home." Rickon had shouted as he'd run pasted both Robb and Jon, their elder brother not even waiting for them as he sought to reach their mother first. It was common knowledge to everyone in Winterfell that Sansa meant the world to her children.

Robb, while only age 6, was quick to follow Rickon. His shorter legs didn't make it easy for him to keep up with the eldest of his siblings, so when he did reach the courtyard Rickon was already wrapped in the loving embrace of their mother.

It had been three months since Sansa had ventured to the Vale to meet with her cousin, Robin Arryn. It was said that his mother's cousin loved her as much, if not more than their father, King Jon, although Robb doubted that anyone could love his mother more than himself, his siblings and his father.

Rickon was busy speaking to her in rushed words to notice that Robb and Jon had caught up, but Sansa noticed them at once. Robb didn't know if himself and Jon had taken off at the same moment, but they were surely being gathered close and peppered with kisses at the same time.

"My little wolves, how I've missed you," Sansa said when at last she finally pulled away. Her eyes flickering over them both to make sure all was right and well with them, nodding when she found all in order. "Where are your sisters?" She said, her hand reaching out to soothe Robb's hair from his eyes.

"Marg was climbing the towers again," Jon reported, still very much glued to Sansa's side.

"Mother! Welcome home, Mother!" The shout rang out from above and they all turned to see the pale blonde figure of their sister, Marg, stood atop the roof of the tower, arms waving about in the air. The second eldest child, Marg, was wilder than any of her brothers, and Robb had heard Sansa say that she doubted any of their other children would ever be as wild.

They called his elder sister the Dragon, whispered that she did not belong in the North, that she should have been sent South to the Dragon Queen. They say the same about Rickon, say that he is a mix of a fish and a dragon, that he is not a wolf, something Robb doesn't understand.

"She'll give me gray hairs," Sansa said even as she waved up to her daughter. "Come along my sweetlings, I must see Lyra and then, you shall tell me of all the adventures you've had while I was away." She encircled one arm around Rickons shoulders kissing his forehead, while her other hand tangled in Jon's hair as they walked.

Later, as they all sat around the nursery listening to Sansa singing Lyra gently to sleep, Robb couldn't help but sigh contently as Sansa's voice filled the room. It didn't seem to matter how old he got, his mothers singing still tended to lull him to sleep. For the first time in months, he felt himself drifting off into a dream world, his mother's sweet voice echoing into his dreams.

At such a young age, there was no one who could compare to his mother, and it wasn't until he was king in the North himself did he fully come to realize that there was no one who could ever compare. Sansa had been as much his hero as his father had been while growing up, he hadn't cared for one more than the other, but maybe all children tended to love their mothers that little bit more.

* * *

 **There are many tales of Robb Stark, King in the North, and all of which include his brother, Jon Stark. 'The Twins of Winter' were said to have been one in the same, rarely if ever was anyone other than their family able to tell them apart, and it was for this reason that there are many tales about the mischief they got up to as children. There are even some tales about the trickery they performed upon their mother's cousin, Robin Arryn, the warden of the East.**

"Do you have to go, mother?"

Once more it was time for his mother to visit the Vale, her cousin, Robin, sending letter after letter that she was to return to him. His mother was a queen, he saw no need for her to answer the summon of a lord from another kingdom, but Robin was his mothers family.

"Robb, you know why I have to go." Her hand found purchase on his cheek. Such a simple gesture, but one that made him feel loved none the less.

"Then allow me to go with you. I can protect you." He trained with his father, the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros. He would give his life to keep his mother safe.

Sansa's smile was soft, her eyes glittering in the snowfall. "You'll protect her, will you?" The deep voiced of his father carried from behind them and Robb turned to gaze into gray eyes that mirrored his own.

"I will, Father," Robb responded straightening while under the watchful gaze of Jon.

Unlike with Sansa, Robb always felt the need to live up to the Stark name when in his father presence. In his eyes, there was no greater hero than his father. Jon Targaryen was not only the greatest swordsman in the all the seven kingdoms, but he was King in the North, and one day so would Robb.

"Please, father, might I go?"

Sansa is smiling, not that Robb can see it, but her hand on his should is all the strength he needs to stare into his father dark eyes.

"Hmm?" His father hums, his eyes moving from Robb's own dark eyes up to meet those of Sansa's, who still unnoticed by Robb is waiting just as eager to hear Jon's answer. "You'll take Jon with you."

The excitement was clear upon Robb's face, he'd never been quite as good at hiding his emotions as his father, that more Jon's specialty. "Of course, father, I never would have left Jon behind." Where he goes, his twin is sure to be by his side.

His fathers gloved hand ruffled his hair gently, his eyes soft as he gazed upon him. "Off you go then, tell your brother." He ran across the yard, shouts echoing as he twisted around those working already knowing his twin was in the Gods Wood.

It would become clear later on, that his father had hoped to be able to bond with Rickon and the girls while both Sansa and the twins were away. Upon their return to Winterfell, it was clear to all that while his father and the girls were closer than ever, the same could not be said of Rickon.

It was around this time that Robb began to see his brother in a different light, began to question whether the rumors were true? Was his brother a wolf? Or was he truly a dragon, who didn't belong in the North?

* * *

 **They say that Winterfell is at its most magnificent when the snow is light and the wind gentle, the sun hidden by the clouds. They say the true beauty isn't the castle itself, nor the God's Woods which it hides behind its walls, but the statue of the Queen, Sansa Stark** **. It's said that men and women alike would travel from across the land to gaze upon the stone beauty that once reigned as Queen in the North.**

Since his mother's death, Winterfell had changed. Rickon had left no sooner had he heard of their mothers passing, and part Robb could not forgive his brother for abandoning his family when they needed him most. Rickon was the eldest, it should have been him who they turned to in their grief, but instead, it had been Robb.

He had loved Sansa, just as much as Rickon, even if his elder brother didn't believe it true. No, he hadn't stayed glued to their mother's skirt as Rickon had done as they grew older, he had seen no need to. It was Rickon who would go South, who would have to leave behind all he knew, while Robb stayed at home, surrounded by everything and everyone he loved.

It had never crossed his mind that he would one day be jealous of all the time Rickon had actully got to spend with their mother. While he was off traveling the North with his father and Jon, Rickon was in Winterfell, making memories that Robb nor any of his other siblings would ever get the chance to make.

Rickon's sudden departure meant that there were two people suddenly just gone from their lives. He'd come to hate his brother over the moons that followed Sansa's passing.

Marg had turned blind with rage, taking on any able male that would dare pick up a sword within her eyesight. His sister, the dragon, had begun to show her true nature. The staff whispered that she should have gone south, followed Rickon, but Robb would have her stay. She might have been tilted with the dragons name, but she wore the wolf as proud as any Stark.

Ned had taken over the care of the babe, Robb had still found it hard to look at the newborn without laying blame on the silver-haired girl, but she was his sister and he would do right by her. Slowly, he'd begun to spend time with the babe, mainly when she slept. She was small, resembling Marg more than she did Sansa, not that it surprised anyone, still, there was something of their mother hidden inside her.

Like all of Sansa's children, they had something of her. Rickon might have her coloring, but Marg had her smile, Lyra had her kindness, Ned, her spirit, and while Robb didn't know what he had of hers, he knew Jon had her heart.

It was many moons after he had been crowned King that word reached them of what Rickon intended to do.

Sat upon the throne his father once sat, Robb, gazed upon the Messenger which had arrived in Winterfell earlier that day. His father was most likely in the Gods woods, and Robb refused to call upon him to hear whatever nonsense that the Southern would surely speak.

"He does not ask you to bend the knee, Your Grace, my King simply wishes for Queen Sansa's bo,"

Robb cut him off before he could continue. "Your King asks too much, Sir. My mother was Queen in the North. She is a Stark of Winterfell, and this is where she belongs." He took in the man that Rickon had sent, a tall man with plan features. He wasn't handsome nor was he ugly, simply as plan as a bland meal. "What is your name, Sir?"

"Jonas Rivers, Your Grace." The man said bowing, his shaggy black hair falling in even layers around his face.

"Tell your King, that the wolf belongs to the North. Neither my mother bones nor her statue shall leave Winterfell."

The man's face fell as if he could not understand the simple words which had left Robb's left. "Your Grace, surely you know tha,"

"My brother has spoken," Marg practically hissed as she stood from the bunch she'd been previously sitting on, the dagger in her hand glittering as she pointed it at Jonas. "Take his words to your King, and be sure to never return to the North.

Jonas seemed to gaze upon Marg in awe. Her Targaryen features seemed to captivate many a southern Lord who ventured to Winterfell, while it was the northerners who appeared to be immune to her beauty.

"Lord Ryswell, I believe you intend to return to The Rill this day, do you not?" Rob inquired turning to the seat Lord, who stood as his name was called.

"I do my King," Lord Ryswell spoke as he stood and bowed his head towards his King.

"See our southern guest from Winterfell, and should you be so kind, have him escorted from the North."

Lord Ryswell turned his steely green eyes upon Jonas Rivers as if the man did a crime by breathing in the northern air. "I would gladly accept such an honor, my King." He said gripping Jonas's shoulder tightly. "Come, Joans Rivers, I'm sure your King must miss you greatly." He sneered before he and his family led the southern knight away.

"What do you intend to do?" Marg asked as she moved to stand next to the throne, her arm hanging casually over the back. The Northern Lords, Lord Dustin, and Lord and Lady Flint, were the only other Northern families who were still within Winterfell's walls since the celebration of Ned's name day feast.

Both families watched him closely, and upon his word, the whole North would go to war should he ask them too.

"Have Maester Tarly ready a raven, I want word to reach Jon that he is to return with haste."

Jon had left for the Vale not three days past. Robin Arryn had attended Ned's name day feast but had wished to return the Vale with due haste. It appeared his mother's absence was far too great for the Vale protector. Of all Sansa's children, it was Jon who Robin tended to favor most, so it had not come as a surprise to any when Robin asked that Jon accompany him on his travels back to the Vale.

Robb might be King in the North, but if they were to go to war, it would be Jon who led them. His twin was after the all, the only man alive to have ever beaten their father in combat and had gained the title of the greatest swordsmen in all the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

King Robb would indeed have his twin lead the Northern army, but he himself was said to have been among his people, ready to fight and die by their side should the old Gods have wished it. The war of Brothers, as it was dubbed by history, would never actully take place, thanks to Prince Jon, but neither Robb Stark nor Rickon Targaryen were to ever see each other again.

A statue, the same as the one which stands in Winterfell would be sent to Kinglanding, a gift to their brother in the South. While it's unknown if the two Kings ever did reconcile, it's known that in both the Red Keep and in Winterfell, there are paintings which still hang, portraying the four brothers.

For all those who have siblings will know, that while you might come to hate your brother or sister, you can't truly stop loving them.


	4. Princess Marg Targaryen

**I do not own Game of Thrones**

* * *

Princess Marg Targaryen, the dragon of the North was said to have ice in her veins rather than fire. First born daughter to Winters King, Jon Targaryen and his Queen, Sansa Stark, Marg came into the world silent and still with a head of silvery hair and amethyst eyes. As she grew she gained the name 'The dragon in the North' by her people, who for many years believed that she did not belong with them.

She had another name though, one known to only a few, but it is by this name that she is usually referred to in accounts by her family. To most, she was known as the 'Dragon in the North', but to others, Marg Targaryen had but one title, 'The white wolf'.

She was a fierce fighter, leaving her mark upon any man who dared to cross blades with her. Paintings of her show that she was tall like her mother, the Queen, and that she favored her aunt's style of clothing. She'd gained scars in her later years, the most noticeable being the scar which cut her right eyebrow into three separate parts, and yet still her beauty remained unmatched.

Like all northerners, she shared little love for those of the south. Any southerner to ask for her hand were sent back down south, worse for wear, but at least still alive. She did not suffer fools gladly and was said to have stolen her husband, the second son of Lady Mormont, the same way wildings practice.

She's depicted at the 'War of the Brothers', although said battle never came to blows. A great warrior and a great beauty, Princess Marg Targaryen is the hero of many girls in today's era, and while there is much known about the 'Dragon in the North', there still much to be discovered.

* * *

 **It's wasn't hard to notice that she was different from all the other children in Winterfell, in the North, in general. Even her brother who shared her name was so different next to her, with his long face and wild red hair, Rickon matched their mother. Only his eyes were what set him apart from everyone else, they were brighter than even Marg's and always seemed to glow in the snow fall.**

Once she'd begun to notice that she was different, she also began to hear that everyone else had noticed too. Whispers about her hair were constant, side way glances from maids were noted, lord and ladies casting accusing eyes towards her were felt. She'd felt like an outsider in her own home. She'd been left with no choice but to do what she'd done.

"By the Old Gods, what have you done?" Her father had whispered aghast when he'd come upon her.

Her long platinum blonde hair which almost could have rivaled her mothers in length lay in piles beneath her feet. It was messy work. She'd started with small bits before she grown brave and simply begun cutting any length of hair she could reach.

"I don't want to be a Targaryen." She'd said as if those words alone were enough to explain why she'd done what she'd done.

"Why?" He asked, reaching to take the scissors from her hand least she begun cutting again.

"If I'm not a Targaryen anymore, then the other children will allow me to join their games, and they can't say that I don't belong in the North. I don't want to be a dragon, Father, I want to be a wolf, like Mother, and Robb, and Jon too."

"Rickon is a dragon,"

"No," She cuts him off, her voice rising in pitch. "He looks a Tully, I heard uncle Edmure say so."

"And, there's something wrong with being a dragon? Your aunts a dragon." Her Father's voice was unusually soft, not that she took much notice.

"Dragons don't belong in the North."

Something seemed to break in father eyes when she'd spoken those words but she hadn't cared because it was true, she'd rather be a Snow, than a Targaryen.

"I can't name you Stark, and I can't change how you look," He got down on his knee, his hand reaching out to brush her short raggy hair. "But the blood of the wolf runs just as strong in your veins, as it does in both mine and your mothers, and Winterfell will always be your home, no matter what anyone else might tell you, do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

He smiled, his hand tugging at a piece of hair that was still long enough to reach her shoulders. "You best go find your mother, she'll be dreadfully angry that you've cut it."

Eyes downcast she began ringing her hands. "Do you think she'll not allow me to have any of the lemon cakes that Mrs. Peppers made?"

"I can't say," Jon said as he stood. "But I'm sure your brothers will be more the willing to sneak you some if you ask,"

Marg's brow frowned, her nose scrunching."I don't need them, not when I can..." She realized then just what she was about to say. "I mean, I suppose I could ask them if Mother does tell me I'm not to have any." She told making her voice sound as innocent as possible while smiling cheekily up at her father.

"You might not look it, but you're a true Stark and you'll always be my little wolf" Without warning she threw herself at him, her arms winding around his waist, her face pressed against his stomach. "What is it, whats wrong?"

"Do you promise?" She asked, pulling back enough to look up into her father dark gray eyes. "That no matter what, you'll always see me as a wolf."

Gray eyes soften, a tenderness taking hold as he cupped her cheek. "My Marg. My white wolf." He proclaimed. "It suits you much better than it ever did me."

She would never tell him, but that day her father had eased her heart of many burdens.

* * *

 **Winterfell is the home of wolves, but there are tales of a dragon who sleeps beneath the castle. Its warm breath is said to heat the water which runs throughs the stone walls of the great winter castle, but there are tales of another dragon, a dragon whose scales were as white as snow, and whose eyes shone a glittering purple.**

"I want to fight."

Eyes the same shade of winter roses flickered up and delicate hands set aside the clothes she'd been mending. In Margs eyes there was no one more beautiful than her Mother, she was unrivaled in all aspects and none had ever dared to tell otherwise.

"Should you not be asking this of your Father, I am by no means a great fighter like he is," Sansa was seated in the nursery, her newest brother sleeping silently in his cradle just inches from her Mothers rocking chair. He'd come into the world not but two moons ago, and like all her other siblings, shared no similarities to herself and bore the name Stark.

Named for their grandsire, Eddard Stark was doted on by all those who had been in Winterfell the night he'd been birthed. All the Northern Lords had been attending a feast in memory of the late warden of the North when little Edd decided he'd wanted to come out, and unlike with Marg, all the Northern Lords and Ladies were thrilled to see the new born the next day when both Mother and child had been presented.

"Marg," Sansas called pulled her gaze away from little Eddard and back to her mother. "If you want to fight, then you may do so, it will not hurt my feelings." Sansa knew all her children well and knew that Marg was more worried about disappointing her more than anything else.

"And you won't mind?"

Sansa smiled and motioned for Marg to come closer. She moved to place herself next to the cradle, peering in at little Eddard who slept unaware that his elder sister had joined them. "People whisper many things behind these walls, what they do they whisper of you?"

She kept her gaze firmly focused on her sleeping brother, watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, watched his mouth part slightly every few second, but mainly she tried to find something to link him to her, but like always, she found nothing. "They call me the dragon," she finally answered, eyes finally moving away from her tiny brother, but her mother's hand gripped her chin and turned her gaze back to Eddard.

"Do you know how dragons fight?" Sansa asked as she released her grip.

"They breathe fire," She answered uncertainly, confused by her mother's question.

"Yes. It's their first and almost always their only form of attack, but what do you know of wolves?"

At this Marg lifted her eyes to meet those eyes that glowed like winter roses. "They fight as a pack, they use their fangs and claws, they never stop."

"Yes," Sansa agreed, turning Marg to face her. "I can't give you fire to wield, but any sword you wield will be your fangs, and any blade you hold shall be your claws," Marg was transfixed by her mother's words. "You're a wolf, my beautiful Marg, but your also a dragon. Never be ashamed of who of you are,"

"I," Marg paused, her voice giving away her uncertainty but then with a breath, her resolve harden. "I don't know if I'll ever wish to use fire against our enemies, but I would be proud to use both the fangs and claws of a wolf."

Soft hands cupped her face, and lips pressed against her forehead. "Whatever path you choose, know that I will love you always."

Marg would never voice it aloud, but her mother's words were what gave her the strength to fight.

* * *

 **Princess Marg Targaryen was well known in the South for her beauty, but in the North, she is known for her skill with a blade. A skilled fighter, it was said she was second to only her brother, Jon Stark, who was given the title of the greatest swordsman in all the Seven Kingdoms. Trained by both her Father, her aunt and members of the free folk, she was said to have a unique style of fighting.**

For many years she had trained in the courtyard of Winterfell, and for many years her Mother had stood watch over her, standing high over head on the balcony. Even when heavy with child Marg could remember Sansa standing watch over her children, ready to be at their side at a moments notice.

Now, there is no one to stand on the balcony, both her mother and father are gone, but Marg still lingers. Often, she finds herself still looking up, expecting to find one or both of them looking down at her, but there is always a bitter sense of loss when she finds that neither are there, for neither will ever stand there again.

Although walking through Winterfell brings about many emotions in Marg, mainly sadness, sometimes anger, she is still glad to be home. She curses her visits South, but Rickon had reached out to them, trying to remedy the relationship between them which had been almost completely extinguished after Sansa's passing, only for Edd, Marg didn't know if she'd have given Rickon another chance.

Maybe if Rickon had tried to mend things with their Father, Marg would have been more open to fixing what had been broken, but Rickon had left it too late and yet Edd, her sweet brother, forgave him. Marg had never asked, but she was sure that Sansa had said something to him before her passing, something that Edd still kept to himself.

"I see you've made it back in one piece, Sister," Grinning she turned to see Jon walking her way, his arms opening before she was pulled into a crushing hug. It was odd that Jon was the first to greet her, usually, Edd would be waiting for her at the gates, most often he'd ride out to meet her, but today she'd found him nowhere in sight, and as of yet, she'd had been unable to locate him. "We weren't expecting you for another moon's turn," Jon said when he pulled away.

"I'm afraid I can't take to the southern heat like our brother," Marg replied taking in the full sight of her brother.

Both Jon and Robb looked so much like their Father, that sometimes it hurts to look at them, but somehow it was always Jon, who is the younger of the twins that Marg thinks has most of their father mannerisms. His face is long and when not in the company of family can be seen looking quite brooding, his voice is far deeper than Robbs, and Jon is by far the better swords man.

"I've been looking for my favorite brother, but I've since been unable to locate him."

Jon raised an eyebrow in amusement and preceded down the hall. "I thought that I was your favorite," He called back with a hint of laughter in his voice,

Marg laughed falling into step with him. "You're my second favorite, but don't tell Robb."

It was Jon's turn to laugh. "And upset our King, I wouldn't dare." He opened the door to Robb's solar, their brother sitting behind the table didn't even bother to look up.

"I see you've made it home safely then,"

"Well, you would if you dared to look and see me with your own two eyes." Marg mocks, flopping into one of the chairs in front of the desk, her boot covered feet planting themselves on Robbs table edge.

Grey eyes flicker up to meet hers, a smirk lighting his face. "I'm surprised to see you here, I'd have thought you off with Edd?"

Marg snorted. "Well, I would have been, had I been able to find him."

Robb nodded sagely, sharing a quick look with Jon who had seated himself in the other open chair. "Second best we are when it comes to Edd, ain't we, Jon?"

"We are indeed, Robb, at least Lyra doesn't play favorites." Jon then added, grinning when Marg shot him accusing look. They didn't bother to mention Daenerys, they all knew their sister preferred the company of Rickon, even if she wouldn't actually voice it out loud.

"Well, I can tell when my company's not wanted," Marg said standing up. "Now, do you happen to know where Edd is, or do I have to search the entire castle?"

Robb chuckled. "He's in the Gods Wood."

"Finally, and if you'll excuse my, I must be off to find my favorite brother," Marg told putting emphasis on favorite and then just as she was about to leave she couldn't help but call back in her most flattering voice. "Oh, and Lyra does have a favorite." She leaves them to worry about who it is alone, she has Edd to see after all.

She finds him near the Gods tree, sitting exactly where Father used to sit. He's no longer a boy, he's been a man for some time, but Marg finds it hard to see him as anything other than Sansa's little wolf.

"Marg!" He exclaims as he catches sight of her walking towards him, and is on his feets in seconds rushing to hug her, lifting her off her feet. "I missed you."

"I've missed you too, brother," she says as she hugs him in return.

* * *

Princess Marg Targaryen, the dragon in the North is the hero of many women in the modern day. She played a large role in working towards equality for not only woman in the North but in the South as well. A woman who was said to be fearless in battle, she is well known for her swordsmanship and the blades which she wielded.

King Jon Targaryen and Queen Sansa Stark were known to have gifted to her two short swords made of Valyrian steel upon her 15th name day, a year before the Queen's tragic death. Today, 'Winters Fangs', the name of her short swords can be found held in the grip of the stone statue of Princess Marg herself, down in crypts below Winterfell where she stands opposite her twin brothers and next to her youngest brother, Prince Eddard Stark.

Tradition would have seen her buried next to her husband on Bear Island, but Princess Marg is not known in history for following the rules, and instead was given the right to be buried with the wolves of the North, for although she had the looks of a Dragon, she was in fact, a true Wolf of the North.


	5. Princess Lyra Stark

**I do not own Game of Thrones**

* * *

Princess Lyra Stark is the most private of Winter's King and Queen's children. The Stark family have kept her life very private and have never shared any information on Princess with the public. The only information which has been acquired on the Princess is from houses in the South which had come into contact with the Stark Princess during her few visits South to meet with her brother, King Rickon Targaryen. Northern families still hold vows to House Stark and have been unwilling to give up any information they might have on the Princess Lyra.

Although she is mentioned in Princess Daenerys's book 'The children of Winter', many get the impression that Lyra's information was left out on purpose. The book states that Lyra was the 5th child born To King Jon and Queen Sansa and that she was the only Stark Princess born to her parents. Her eyes were Stark gray and her hair a mousy brown, she was short in height, the shortest of her siblings if the few painting of her are anything to go by.

* * *

 **Some dreams are forgotten as soon as our eyes open, others stay in the back of our minds until a time when they are called forth. There are those who claim to see the future in their dreams, claim that they have witnessed events happen long before they come to play out in the land outside of dreams.**

The tiny patter of feet across the stone floor was detected long before she entered the room, there was no hiding from her Father. He always seemed to know when it was her who came searching for her Mother, his kind grey eyes glowing in the firelight as he would beckon her forward, allowing her to wait with him until her Mother would appear from wherever it was she had been attending to her duties as Queen.

"Come, sweet Lyra," Her father waved her over, hands reaching to place her upon his lap as they waited. "Was it another dream?" He asked kindly, a scared hand brushing the hair from her eyes as she cuddled into his side.

She nodded, pressing her face into his shoulder, least the dreams come to haunt while awake.

"You will tell me when you are ready, won't you?" He asked, a soothing hand running up and down her back as her shoulders shook with unsuppressed sobs.

"Has it happened again?" Sansa soft voice asked, and Lyra twisted to see the tall figure of her Mother enter the room.

Sansa was five mouth along, and would soon gift Lyra a new sibling. Although only five, something twisted inside her as she looked at her Mother's slowly rounding stomach, and the dream once more surfaced to the forefront of her mind, causing the tears to begin anew and tiny sobs to rack her body.

"Oh, my sweet one," Sansa rushed to her then, Jon handing her off to Sansa as they traded places, with Jon standing and Sansa taking his seat. "Tell us, what troubles you so?"

"A dream," she whispered afraid to speak the words out loud.

Jon knelt, his fingers swiping the tears which fell heavy against her rosy cheeks, a soft encouraging smile being offered when Lyra met his gaze.

"The babe took you from us," She whispered as if it were a secret none but they could know, "You were gone and we were alone," She clung to her Mother, small fingers turned white gripping her mother's gown.

"My poor, sweet one. I'll not leave you, not ever, not if I can help it," Sansa said, her hand treading through Lyra's dark locks, a mother's soothing touch.

"It was only a dream," Jon carried on, voice soft as he pressed Lyra's hand against Sansa's stomach. "Your brother will be here soon enough, and you'll forget all about your bad dream," Jon assured as he and Sansa shared a look, which Lyra couldn't understand.

When Edd finally came into the world, Lyra remembers her dream, remembered her Fathers words as her brother was presented to her.

The small babe, with a small amount of black curly hair already atop his head, is placed in her arms by her mother as the two sit on the bed together. "You see, we are both here, nothing happened," Sansa tells her, and Lyra wonders how her Mothers always seems to know her worries without Lyra having to voice them.

Looking at her little brother, she can't help but think that the babe in her dream had white hair, and eyes the same shade as Marg, eyes which reflected a dragon gaze.

Years later, she will have forgotten her dream, will have forsaken the gift from the Gods, and when sorrow and grief take hold, her gift is all she will have to show her the way.

* * *

 **Some gifts can often feel like a curse. They are unwanted by those who have been bestowed the gift, and to others, they are the greatest gift one could ever wish to have. Lyra Stark saw gift as a curse, she did not want it, she would gladly give it away if possible, but it was not.**

Winterfell was a place filled with magic, and somehow, out of all her siblings, Lyra's Stark blood was strongest. A solemn child, she was seldom found away from her mother, and many a Lord or Lady couldn't help but notice that she never appeared happy.

An odd child many thought, for she did not laugh nor giggle as young girls do, she had no wish to play with the other children, she did not cry when hurt, it was a rare sight to see a smile ghost across the Stark princess's lips if her mother was not close at hand.

"I wish for Bran to return,"

"Sansa," Lyra heard her Father sigh. "We don't know if we need Bran, your worry might be for nothing."

Sansa who have previously been pacing came to a sudden halt, and Lyra turned curious gray eyes turned her Mother.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She'd been in bed not a moment ago, and then suddenly she'd been inside her parent's bedchambers. It wasn't the first time such a thing had occurred, sometimes she went to other rooms, but always within the walls of Winterfell. Sometimes she wouldn't even know the people who walked her home, although they all felt familiar.

"There is something there, Jon, I can feel it," Sansa said, her words coming out a worried sigh. "And I fear that only Bran can confirm what I already know to be true."

Glancing down at her bare feet, she wondered why she didn't feel the cold beneath her. It was late, and while the fire burned strong, and the heated water flowed through the walls, she should have been able to feel the cold stone beneath her feet, and yet she felt nothing.

"If there is something there, then Bran shall know," Jon assured, and then in a swirl, she was back in her room, Marg's soft snores filling her ears from where her elder sister slept across from her. Sansa had thought Lyra still too young to be alone, and Lyra couldn't be more thankful for it.

Her breath came in pants, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the poor imitation of a wolf, a gift Marg had tried to make her for her name day. A gift she treasured above all else, for although it was poorly made, Sansa had explained it was filled with a special kind of love only shared between sisters.

The thoughts of what she might be frightened her. She'd never known fear in her life, not when she had both her Mother and Father, Marg and her brothers to protect her, but now she faced the fact that not even they could protect her from herself.

"Oi!"A single purple eye, still slightly shut was watching Lyra, although Marg probably couldn't see out of it very well, if one took into account that half her face was still hidden by the pillow. "Another bad dream?"

Lyra chooses not to answer, simply continued to stare at Marg until her sister sighed, rearranged herself in her bed, and then lifted her blanket so that Lyra could join her. In seconds she's slipped from her own bed, across the cold floor, and into Margs bed.

Marg is warm, 'dragon's fire' a little voice whisper's in her mind, but Lyra pushes it away as Marg's arm wraps around her then, pulling them so close that there is no room left between them. She doesn't know why, but Marg somehow blocks out her dreams, stops her 'soul wandering' as Lyra has begun to call it. She likes to think its Margs love for her that stops her leaving her body, but it could be the Targaryen blood, it too, is filled with magic.

"Sleep, I'll protect you," Marg whispers already back on the edge of sleep.

No dreams awaited her when she finally drifted off, and when morning came, it was her mother's hand treading through her hair which pulled her from the darkness, her Mother, who Lyra knew would do anything to protect her.

* * *

 **Precious are the memories made with those that we love, for we can never know how long we might have with them. It is often that when a person dies, all one can see is the heartache and pain that comes with losing that person, they forget the happiness which they had once shared.**

"I will miss you." She says, placing a single bloomed Winter rose into the outheld hand of her Mother's statue which stands in the crypts.

"Do you have to go?" Edd asks, and Lyra tries to remember when he'd grown from the little boy tugging at their Mothers skirts, into the Man that grazes at her now with deep sorrowful eyes witch mirrors their Grandfathers like no other.

They have all grown older, changed in little ways. Rickon a king in another land, Jon spends almost four moons turns in the Vale now, Robb's about to be crowned King, Marg has gained scars which only enhance her beauty, Daenerys is attending classes, and Edd, Edd's become a man without her notice.

Taller than all her siblings, Edd was a man highly regarded by the people of the North and by Lyra herself. Her little brother, he was stronger than all of them. Her greensight allowed her to see all which had occurred within the walls of Winterfell. She has seen her Mother die, had stood at her bedside watching as the light had faded from her eyes, watched as her Father held her for hours, had been with Edd when he first met Daenerys, had watched Rickon cling to their Father as he cried tears of rage and sorrow.

"I've been bestowed a gift, Edd, and even if I don't truly understand it, I won't let it go to waste if it can help others." She told, stepping aside as Edd placed his own Winter rose into their Mother's palm.

"Can you hear it?" He asked, grey eyes never once leaving the stone white face of Sansa.

Once, he'd asked about her gift, and she told him her power, said that she could still see Sansa walk the halls, still hear her voice whisper how she loved them so, still watched her as she danced in the hall, that she would never leave her, for it was Sansa who had given her this gift of sight.

"Yes," She whispers eyes closing for just a moment because her gift activates most when Edd is near as if he alone is enough to call the memories of her Mother from the walls of Winterfell.

"Do you think you shall find her, in the South, that is?"

Lyra shall accompany the statue of their mother to Kingslanding, where she shall gift it to Rickon, in hopes that the gift might bridge some of the gapes which had thrown through their family.

"If she is there to be found, then I shall find her," Lyra answers, although she is unsure if she wants to find her Mother's memories there, as the Red Keep held no happy memories for Sansa according to their Father.

"Even if you find her, remember, that it is here that she truly remains," Margs speaks as she silently glides towards them, her own winter rose tucked into her hand, a dusting of fresh snow still present on its leaves.

Lyra smiles sadly. "I already know that," she says, moving aside to let Marg pass so that she might place her own rose atop their own.

"You intend to go to Uncle Bran once you have finished your visit, do you not?" Marg asked, stepping back so that the three siblings all stood in a line.

"I do, although, I shall be traveling by ship on the way back, so I shall not be back to Winterfell for some time." Lyra offered, wondering if Robb had not already discussed this with their elder sister.

"Then come, you're going away feast awaits you," Marg said, hands rising to interlock behind her head as she leads the way back towards the steps. Edd follows easily, but Lyra, she stays long enough for Margs and Edd's voice to fade slightly and then turns back to Sansa.

In the blink of an eye, she is looking upon Sansa and herself, Sansa speaking in soft words as she leads a younger Lyra by the hand down to where their Uncle Rickon lays in Rest.

"Although he is gone now, Lyra," Sansa begins as they come to a halt before the young wild wolf known as Rickon Stark. "My brother is at my side, as will I one day be by yours, and although you won't be able to see me, don't doubt that I am there."

She blinks and she is alone once more, only the stone figure of her Mother as her companion.

"Stay with me, and don't ever leave my side." She whispered, cloak swirling around her as she made her way back to where her siblings waited for her.

* * *

Princess Lyra Stark, little is known about her life, but what is known, is that she was kind-hearted, a woman treasured by the smallfolk, and one touched by the Old Gods, although it is not known how exactly. Southern families have very little information to share on the Stark Princess, and Northern families still guard her secrets today.

Loyal to the Stark's, Northern families to this day refuse to break a vow that was made centuries ago. So, one can't help wondering, what is it about this Stark Princess that The North holds her in such high regard, and is there more to her, who was said to be touched by the Old Gods? It's likely we shall never know.


	6. Prince Jon Stark

**I do not own Game of Thrones**

* * *

Prince Jon Stark, The Black Wolf of Winterfell, was buried at Winterfell next to his brother, King Robb Stark. The greatest swordsman of his time, Jon Stark is hailed for his bravery, his honor, but above all else, his loyalty to his family. The second born Stark son, Jon is remembered fondly by does of Riverlands, his nameday is a national holiday for those who live in the Vale, and to those who live in the North, Jon Stark is their beloved Prince.

When the 'War of the Brothers' almost came to blows, it was Jon Stark who rode out to meet with his Targaryen brother, the two brothers spoke in private, and while we shall never know the words spoken between them, we know that whatever was said, put an end to the war before it could begin.

Paintings of Jon Stark could be confused for those of his twin, King Robb, if not for the fact that, Jon, like his father, had a preference towards wearing black. Tousled black hair, which was thick and curled at the ends, framed a strong, defined face, alongside dark grey eyes, it's no wonder the woman of today still continue to be captured by the man.

History says that Jon Stark and his twin slipped into their eternal sleep side by side, together, just as they had when they entered the world. Buried together in the crypts below Winterfell, they stand tall and proud next to one another, and the words which are inscribed beneath their statues are 'Friece is the blood of the wolf that protects the North', and they say there was none more fierce than Jon Stark.

* * *

 **The crypts below Winterfell are said to be cold and dark, that echo's of those long gone can still be heard by the Starks who guard their kin as they sleep. Many believe that when the moon is high, and the hour of the wolf is afoot, that the ghosts of the past can be seen walking the tunnels, but whether or not it's true, only a Stark can truly say.**

"What was he like, your brother, Rickon Stark?" Jon couldn't help but ask as he accompanied Sansa once again down into the crypts, the place where two of his uncles had been laid to rest.

"He was a wolf," Sansa began, a smile curling her lips as her hand reached to grasp Jon's shoulder. "Some would say more wolf than man, but he was my brother," He peaked a look to see his mother was staring intently at the stone statue of his uncle, his brother's namesake. "If I thought that he would get to live in my place, I would have died that day without any regret." Something dark flashed across her face.

"Father doesn't speak of him," Jon spoke softly, the echoing of water hitting stone reaching his ears from further down the tunnel.

Sansa's grip on him loosened slightly as she exhaled. "It's hard for your Father. Jon rode out that day intending to save Rickon, and just when he felt that he could save him, Rickon was killed right before his eyes. He's never forgiven himself."

It is silent then, no words could be offered from Jon after such words had been spoken. He knew House Stark's history, knew of the war they had faced together, and how many of the pack had been lost along the way, his uncles included, but they lived on still, and he was the future of his house, alongside his siblings.

"I often wonder what he would have been like had he had time to grow into a man, but your brother reminds me of him so much," Sansa said as she caught Jon's eye, and he knew that somehow, while his mother carried a great sadness within her, she also happy. "You sometimes remind me of him also," She carried on, smiling as Jon's eyes widened.

"Really?" He asked, his eyes turning to the boy statue before him.

There was a wildness about Rickon Stark as if the statue itself wished to move. It was as if it didn't know it was made of stone. Part of him wondered just what of Rickon Stark, did his mother see in him.

"What do you see when you look at him?" Sansa asked softly as she moved behind him, her hands draped over his shoulders.

"Wildness," He answered bluntly and his Mothers soft laugh echoed around them before she encouraged him to go on. He was unsure if there was anything else, but offered but one word, a word his mother had used earlier to describe his uncle. "A wolf?"

"Yes," She breathed and he knew he was on the right path to figuring out what the answer was, " And what is a wolf?"

"Strong, fierce, a leader," he thought of his Father, the bravest man in all seven Kingdoms, the only man Jon looked up too.

"But they are also so much more," which Jon already knew, and it was there he found his answer.

"They are caring, loyal, protective." Only then did he see these things gazing back at him from the stone eyes of Rickon, see what was hidden behind the gaze of the 'Wild Wolf'. "Do you think that I might one day be worthy of the honor of having the title of Wolf?" He asked turning slightly so that he could see his Mothers face.

"I think that's something only you can know in time. It's not something I nor your Father can bestow upon you, but I believe you have the making of being a great wolf, or a dragon if that's what you choose."

"I'll be a wolf," He stated proudly, chest puffing up with pride as he turned to grin up at Sansa. "I'll be a great wolf, just like you."

The 'Red Wolf' he'd heard the people of Wintertown call his Mother, the older generation loved nothing more the to sing songs of praise to her name. They spoke of her bravery during the long night, of her courage to face the monsters of her past. They say she was more beautiful than her Lady Mother, stronger than anyone ever gave her credit for, old Meg likes to say that his Lady Mother was the strongest woman she knew, high praise coming from such a woman.

"You'll be a great wolf, I have no doubt, but all wolves must eat, so come," She said turning him so as to lead them back towards the staircase. "I'm sure the other's are wondering where we've got off too,"

One thing he notices is that each time before they leave, his Mother will lean forward to press a kiss upon his uncle's wolf, Shaggydog, before kissing her fingertips and then reaching up to press them against the cold stone cheek of her brother, telling him that she shall visit him again soon.

He doesn't know it then, but he shall perform a similar act each time he comes to visit her Statue. He will not know grief, the likes of which Sansa had suffered until the day he returns to find that he shall never again see his Mother, but in his grief, he too found happiness in all that Sansa had left behind, in the siblings which his Mother had treasured most in her life.

* * *

 **Feasts in the Great Hall of Winterfell were said to rival those that took place in the Red Keep, but any Northman will swear that none south of the Neck can compare to the celebrations held in Winterfell, for its there that the people gather to renew oaths and bonds old and new. They are all children of Winter, and together, they are strong.**

Jon had never understood his Fathers dislike for festivities, he himself was more than pleased to be the one to lead his Mother around the floor, to the envy of both his brothers and the bannerman who made their way to Winterfell to participate in their celebrations.

As luck would have it, his own Father did not take to the floor to dance often, and Rickon was partnered with Marg, they'd been partners since they'd first begun to learn to dance and Robb did his duty, allowing Lyra to stand on his boots and spun her around the floor, giggles escaping his younger sister, while he, he was the one to twirl about the floor with his Mother.

It became a custom that his Father would be the one to lead his Mother in the first dance of the night, and from there on after she would be swipe across the floor in Jon's own arms, sometimes trading to Robb or Rickon.

Tonight, tonight is different from the usual feast they hold, because tonight is his Rickon's 16th nameday and people from all over the Seven Kingdoms had come to see the King who would one day sit upon the Iron Throne. While the people of the North care little for the tile Rickon will one day hold, they still come in their droves to wish him well on his nameday.

"I hear there's to be a change to the way we enter," Jon said passing Robb his tunic before reaching for his own. Rickon stood off to the side, already dressed, but trying to comb down his unruly red hair, which like always, sprang back into its usual tangle of curls.

"Why should there be? Father enters with Mother on his arm, its the way we always enter." Robb said, his voice slightly muffled as he went about changing.

"If not Father, then who would be escorting our Aunt?" Jon asked, securing the Stark brooch on his clothing, before passing Robb's own brooch into his awaiting hand.

The brooches themselves were a gift given to the Stark child born to the North from their southern aunt, while both Rickon and Marg had been gifted a three-headed dragon.

"She would enter on the arm of her Queens guard, Ser Jorah Mormont, but she asked and I couldn't refuse." Their Father offered as he entered the room, little Edd slightly hidden by his Father's large cloak.

Their youngest brother grinned up at them bashfully as he took note that all three of his elder brothers were gazing at him. The light pink dusting his cheeks reminded Jon so much of their Mother, for the same shade of pink would still appear on her own cheeks when his Father whispered words to her.

"Your Mother is waiting down the hall if you are ready?"

They followed their Father out of the room, following the familiar route until the came across Marg tugging at the dress she'd be gifted by their aunt, she looks as uncomfortable as Rickon with her Dragon brooch. She sneers when her eyes land on Rickon brooch, her own exactly the same.

"I see you got a gift also," Marg says as she falls into step next Rickon, their Father a few steps ahead with Edd.

"I'll swap with you if you want," Jon offers, looking down at his own brooch. Its probably his favorite gift their aunt has given him, but for Marg, he's willing to wear the dragon so that she doesn't feel different.

Marg turns to glare at him before slowly her gaze softens and she sighs. "No, it was gifted to me, its best I wear it, but after tonight I'm never wearing it again."

They come upon their Mother, Lyra and their aunt waiting for them, Sansa's hair dark in the hallway, but glows like fire as she turns to smile at them. "I didn't know if I'd be escorting myself in alone or not," Sansa says when they immediately pair off to enter the hall.

Jon offers his arm, smiling when Sansa reaches out to bush a stray curl from his eyes before taking his arm. He treasures the moments they spend together, never once forgot the love which sparkled in his Mother's eyes as he twirled her across the floor, her smile wide, laugh soft as if sharing it with only him.

She would always be his Mother, death could not change that fact, and so even when he grew old and grey, he found that he loved her still, and even in death, that could not change, for who? If there was any, could stop loving someone like Sansa Stark, the mother of wolves and dragons.

* * *

 **It is easy to forget, to lost track of time and all that was once dear, and yet still a heart can ache. Time may heal all wounds, but scars shall always remain. Some scars we look back on with pride, some with anger, others bring about grief.**

Jon has his fair share of scars, some he'd gained learning to fight, some scars he gained from being stupid as a boy, but one scar he'd inflicted upon himself was a reminder of sorts.

Its a scar easily hidden beneath the leather chuff he wears on his left wrist, but its message is clear. There was a time where he'd thought to end it all. When he'd felt like the person who'd he'd once been had disappeared, and yet somehow he'd found his way again, although it hadn't been easy.

Sansa was the person who bound them together, and without her, they had broke in ways that could never be repaired. She had understood them in ways that not even they could understand themselves and as he hard as he'd tried, not even he could bring them back together.

Rickon, he had tried so hard to bring his brother home, to reunite the family Sansa had loved so dear, but it was not to be, for Rickon had found a new path, a path which detained him to the South, which kept him from the cold beauty that was the North, but for all his faults Rickon was still his big brother.

The time they had met had been on the battlefield, the two of them had been hidden behind the black flaps of a tent which showed the Red three-headed dragon emblem of House Targaryen. Rickon had stood proudly in black amour, his eyes had flicker with curiosity briefly when Jon had entered but had soon dulled when no one else came to join them.

"So this is how Robb shall do it, he sends my own brother to kill me?" Rickon had asked, nodding in what Jon thought might be acceptable.

"Do you think I would comply to kill you should Robb order me too?"

"Why wouldn't you comply with your Kings orders?"

Jon took in the man before him, red hair tousled, eyes duller then they had once been, skin slightly darker from its exposure to the warm southern sun.

"I'm your brother, and your mine, now and always," Jon said, pulling his sword and allowing it to fall to the floor, leaving him unarmed. "Or have you forgotten?"

In beginning, he'd been so angry at Rickon, angry that their elder brother could be so selfish, but Arya had set him straight. Where Jon had learned how to hide his grief well from others, Rickon wore his across his face. His once always present smile gone and Jon wondered if he'd ever see it again, the once hidden happiness his voice carried had faded, and his eyes which Mother often said were a reflection of the clear Northern sky, had dulled, the shine having left his once bright eyes.

"If I have to, I will die for you," Jon said before his tone turned pledging. "But please understand that you can never take her, her place is in Winterfell, as it has always been."

"How can you stay there? How can you roam those halls knowing what will never be again? Why is it me, who is haunted by what shall never be again?"

"You think you're alone?" Jon's voice seemed to crack. "You think that we did not love her just as much as you? I love her too, as do the others, and while you can't stay there, we can't leave."

"Then come South." Rickon offered, arms opening in a gesture that they would all be welcome. "Come with me."

"No," Jon shook his head. "You've misunderstood." He said taking in the confusion on Rickon's face. "We don't want to leave."

"Why?"

"As hard as it is to know that she's not there, I know that once, she had laughed there, that she had nothing but happiness while there with us, and, and I'm not sure I'll ever truly be ready to leave," Jon confessed.

Robb thought him the stronger of the two of them, Marg though him the one who feared nothing, but Jon was just as afraid and scared as everyone else, he just happened to be better at hiding it. Without Sansa, he was more alone than ever before, for his Mother had been the only one to truly ever see past the persona he showcased to the world.

As hard as it was for Rickon to understand, Jon didn't see things the same way Rickon did. When he walked into the nursery, he wasn't haunted by the fact that Sansa wasn't there, but recalled precious memories that had been shared in the room, memories that were treasured and that could never be pushed aside and forgotten.

"I knew that it was wrong asking to take her from Winterfell," Rickon began, eyes downcast. "But I have nothing left."

Five steps forward had him in front of Rickon. "You have us, you always have us."

"I didn't want to start a war, Robb is my brother, but I loved Mother, and now I am more alone then I have ever been." Jon reached out, pulling his brother close, allowing his tears to soak the leather of his tunic. "I don't think I can go on."

"You can," Jon said fiercely, hugging Rickon as close as was possible. He too had felt this way, had felt the same pain his brother shared with him. "Your heart is broken, but it will heal."

"I don't think it will."

"Our Mother didn't raise you to be broken so easily," Jon stated. "You'll find a way because no matter what's going on right now, we still need you."

* * *

Prince Jon Stark, The Black Wolf of Winterfell, was known for many things throughout his life, his bravery, his honor, his loyalty, but few knew of the struggles he faced in life. Like all his siblings, it's known that he suffered much after the loss of his Mother, but from her death, he rose in greatest and did much in her name.

They say it was Jon who commissioned the statue of Queen Sansa, which today stands in the 'Sansa's Garden' in Kings Landing. They say King Rickon visited it every day up until his death, and should one wonder the garden today, they shall find hidden in the garden a stone wolf, whose statue is as black as coal.

Some say the wolf was made for Jon Stark, whose title was 'The Black Wolf of Winterfell', but the royal family has neither denied nor confirmed this to be true. One can only wonder, of what was spoken between the Prince of the North and King in the South.

A man who was beloved by the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North, Jon is not likely to ever fade into the past. A man worthy of the title Wolf, Jon now rests beside his brothers, sister, and his parents, all those before him. 'Friece is the blood of the wolf that protects the North', for who among the Children of Winter was more fierce than Jon Stark.


	7. Prince Eddard Stark

**I do not own Game of Thrones**

* * *

Prince Eddard Stark, named for his Grandsire, can be found in crypts beneath Winterfell, next to where his twin brothers stand tall and proud. Youngest son of Winters children, he is the last Stark child born of the King and Queen and many call him the Wolf Prince.

There are countless tales of the young Wolf Prince, many memories which have been shared with the public, but there is still much concealed about the favored child of Winter.

It is unknown why so many people of today identify with the youngest son of Winter, but research shows that of all Winters children, that it is the tale of Ed Stark that people, no matter their age, still love to hear and who many dedicate their lives to studying.

Unlike all Stark men before him, Eddard or Ed, as he can be known, had his statue craved with no sword. A warrior in his own right, he asked upon his death that his statue displays something other than a sword and who would dare refuse a Prince of the Winter.

* * *

 _ **Some children are not so lucky to know the love of a Mother or a father, a brother nor a sister, yet I came into the world loved by all. I was**_ ** _loved unconditionally, but I think of all those I called family, it was my Mother who loved me most._**

All he has ever known is the protection of Winterfell and though he has never known true Winter, for it shall never return, he knows that in his body lays the blood of the Kings of Old, who fought and survived many Winters, and so Ned knows that he too holds a part of Winter within him.

"I seem to have lost my littlest wolf," Tiny hands try to suppress the titters of laughter that wish to escape, his grey eyes watching for the person searching for him. "I wonder where he could be hiding?" She calls softly before pulling him from his hiding place, showering him with kisses and causing him giggle aloud as he tries to escape her grasp.

"I'm not sure I'd call that a wolf, Mother," Marg says from high up in the treetops, his elder sister once again hiding away so that she wouldn't have to attend her lessons. "He resembles a pup more than a wolf."

Hearing her words, Ned turned in his Mother's hold, his tiny hands grasping the red hair which fell within his grasp. "I'm a wolf. I'm the greatest wolf in the North." He growled, clamping his teeth together.

Sansa gave an echoing laugh, her smile bright as she readjusted her hold on the small body in her arms. "The North has never known such a mighty wolf." Sansa agreed, pressing a final kiss to his cheek before placing him on his feet.

He grinned as he looked up at the tall figure of his Mother. She is in his eyes, is the most beautiful woman in the world, her beauty one which nothing else could compare and to Ned, she was his world. Her voice which sang him to sleep each night would be the first voice he would hear upon awakening, her hand the only one to ever caresses the dark curls from his eyes.

When it came time for Sansa to return to overseeing her duties, Ned followed with unhurried steps, knowing that she would never leave him behind, would always wait for him to catch up if he fell behind.

Being as young as he is, he doesn't understand what exactly love is, but he knows that he loves her more than anything or anyone else in the world.

She speaks to him often of the man she hopes that he will one day be, and though her words shape his dreams, they also give birth to his fears.

"One day, you will no longer need me," she says as she tucks the furs around him, her smile gentle and yet sad.

"No," He shakes his head, adamant that he is right. "I will always need you. "

He may be a boy, but he knows that no matter how strong he might grow, or how tall he might become, no matter what battles he might fight, that he will always need her and will always remember that she loved him, as much as he loved her.

* * *

 **Those born with the name Stark are burdened with a greatest from the moment of their birth, for the past lives on in the future and Northerners always remember.**

His vision was slightly blurred, and his breath was slow. He was warm and the words being spoken were fading as his dreams called to him to return, but the shifting of the arms wrapped around him pulled him back to the surface. The cracking of the fire, the low whispered voice of his parents and his elder sister, Marg.

"Off to bed with you," His Father deep voice said softly, and Ned's eyes opened slightly to see his Father running his fingers through his sister's short pale hair, which had once been as long as his Mother's before she cut it off.

Marg yawned, blinking tiredly. "I'm not tired."

Jon laughed lightly as he steered her from the room. "I believe you, but you've training with your brother come morning."

They left, and only the gentle humming of his Mother carried through the room, the chair rocking softly. It has been a long time since he last fell asleep in his Mother's arms, but her embrace is still as he remembers, warm, safe and the feeling of love.

He doesn't realize how much this simple moment will mean to him in the future, or how he will often recall it when he thinks of his Mother.

Briefly, he wonders of his Brother, Rickon, knowing that Robb and Jon both are staying with Mormont's, their return not due for another two moons, but usually Rickon is not far from their Mother's side, yet Ned is glad to have the time alone with her.

She whispers to him in that room alone, just the two of them, of all the hopes and dreams she hopes will come true for him, but mostly, she whispers of how proud of him she is, and how she will always love him.

Moons later, when death came to take her from them, Ned would be the only one of her children to send her off, whispering to her through the night of all she had once whispered to him, of his love for her, and how one day he would be a man worthy of the name she had gifted him.

Never again was he to be called by the name Ned, for that had been the name Sansa had gifted him, a name which she had filled with love and affection, and so no other was to use it, but he gifted to Daenerys a name, Dany, a name so she too might share something with their Mother.

Many years will pass and true to her word, he will do many things with his life. He will travel and see places he had once only dreamed of seeing, he will live up the name bestowed upon him, he will fall in love with a girl who is harsh and deathly like the North. He will live the life she dreamt he'd have, live, knowing that each step he took she walked beside him.

No one ever imagines that one day they will have to live on without the ones they love, but Ned learned this early on in his life. He lost someone who could never be replaced, who no other could ever compare and for that short time they had together, Sansa shared with him the love only a Mother could offer.

* * *

 **Prince Eddard traveled much in his youth, sailed sea's and crossed lands to see what the world the could offer, but its said that he never once thought of any other place than the North as his home. Its recorded that no matter how much he traveled, that upon the death day of Queen Sansa, the young Wolf Prince would appear at the gate of Winterfell, ready to stand with his siblings as new candles were lit for the dead who lay at rest in the crypts below.**

For many years now he has come to witness the sacred ritual of the candle lighting. It is an act performed only in the North. A way for them to remember and remind those that have passed on into the realm of the dead that they have not been forgotten.

Once, it had been his Father who lit the candle which dangled at Sansa's side, but the responsibility has fallen to Ed. In the North, the candle bearer must be one of the people who stood watch over the dead before they were carried below. As only his Father and Ed had been present, it fell to Ed to light the candle beside Sansa, and speak the words which had been spoken since the first Stark was laid to rest.

First, one must stand beneath the Gods tree, with the eyes of the Gods upon them, the person shall kneel, and whisper a prayer to the Old Gods that their words might be heard by their loved one's past. Once the candle has been lit, it is carried below, with the other members of the house following the candle bearer.

The candle itself is made from the sap of the Gods tree, for it is believed that only through the candle can one converse with the dead. It is a great honor to be the candle bearer to a family member, and Ed has the greatest honor of being the one who carries the candle to his Mother, to be the first to speak to her.

He is a man grown, standing taller than any of his siblings. Often, it is remarked that he is the mirror image of his Grandsire, but he is told that of all the children his Mother birthed, that it is himself who the people see her in most of all.

"She would be proud you," Marg comments as she comes to stand beside him, watching as the people of Wintertown come to lay winter roses at the feet of their Mother's statue in the courtyard. The family and the staff of Winterfell had been down into the crypts earlier to pay their respects, the only time anyone other than a Stark could venture down into the tunnels below.

"She would be proud of each of us." Ed returned, watching as a young boy dropped a flower, turning to smile up at his mother who offers a smile as she followed his gesture and dropped a flower of her own.

"Lyra took a candle with her to Kings Landing so that Rickon might hold a similar ceremony for Mother there," Marg began, leaning forward on the banister, arms folding over as she peered at the townsfolk as they continued to come in their droves. "She said something about a vision, but you never really can tell whats going on in that head of hers."

"I envy her gift," Ed offers as his eyes catch Robb's, their Kingly brother making his way up the steps to join them.

"I would say the same, had I not seen her suffer when she could not change the outcome of one of her visions." Marg supplied, her gaze momentarily lifting to Robb's approaching figure before returning to watch the people below.

"It never ceases to amaze me, how far some of these people travel to honor Mother on her Deathday," Robb says as he comes to a halt, Marg standing between the two brothers. "But I suppose you have traveled the furthest to be here today, have you not Ed?"

"Nothing could have kept me away." Ed voiced, knowing that he would have traveled all 14 sea's to be here today. "I haven't seen Uncle Robin, has he not arrived yet?"

Robb gave a drawn-out sigh, while Marg chuckled. "Our dear uncle is presently sleeping off the most horrible of hangovers," Marg grinned evilly at Robb, who had turned slightly green. "I never did get the chance to ask, but did he really throw up on you while you and Jon walked him to his chambers?"

Robb, still slightly puce green, cleared his throat. "When they said that Jon was his favorite I didn't quite believe it to be true, but I have since reevaluated my thoughts, and believe that Jon is indeed the favorite."

Marg grunts and waves a hand dismissively. "Jon's always been his favorite, you've just been in denial."

Ed watches the pair bicker between themselves, amused that no matter the time they spend apart that they have not changed. Winterfell shall always be the place he calls home, but it has never been the walls that make it such, but the family who remain here while he travels.

"Prince Eddard!" He hears and turns as Maester Sam walks slowly towards him, the aged man carrying in his hand a small scroll.

"A raven from Kings Landing arrived moments ago, I believe it be the Princess Lrya's handwriting."

Ed takes the scroll and offers his gratitude to Sam, the man has been in his families service since he'd completed his chain links and had been a dear friend to his Father and Mother.

Its Lyra's handwriting, of course, his sister knows his location no matter where he goes and with her wag power her scrolls always reach him.

It's not a long note, just a few words, and maybe they wouldn't mean much to another, but they meant everything to him.

"'No matter where I am, I will always love,'" he looks at Marg as she reads the words out loud, her eyes drifting to meet Robbs gaze before looking back at him. "What does it mean?"

Ed smiled, chuckling softly as he figures out just why Lyra sent such a message. "Just a reminder," They were words Sansa had spoken to him on her deathbed, a reminder that she would always love him.

A precious memory, something which tied her to him, a bond of love which could never be broken. They each had one, something which kept Sansa alive in each of them, something which they kept to themselves. It wasn't that they didn't want to share, but that they were selfish in the love that she had given each of them.

It would seem that time nor death could take from them the love their Mother had bestowed upon each of them. While death might have taken her from them, it could never take from them what she had freely give, and they would forever hold onto it, the love which still lingers on in their hearts, which she had left behind.

* * *

Prince Eddard Stark did many good deeds throughout his lifetime, touched many people throughout his travels. There is no shortage of tales to be told about the Wolf Prince, for people all over the Seven Kingdoms have stories and tales to tell about Eddard Stark.

Many scribes will telltale that Eddard, like all Winters children, carried an echoing sadness within his gaze, a grief that forever lingered with the passing of the Queen. The loss of Queen Sansa was a wound which never healed for her children and yet they burned as bright as any star in the night sky.

Eddard, upon his deathbed, had but one request, a request his younger sister Dany saw through upon his passing. So should you ever happen to be welcome down into the crypts of Winterfell, should you ever be lucky enough to brought to where they stand together, you shall find that while the Twin wolves both hold their swords and the white wolf her fangs, that in the outheld hand of the Wolf Prince sits a single stone rose, a rose meant for his Mother.


	8. King Rickon Targaryen

**I do not own Game of Thrones**

* * *

King Rickon Targaryen, first of his name and ruler of the six kingdoms is one of the three Targaryen children born to the King and Queen of Winter. Affectionately called the Red Dragon, Rickon reined for many decades before his death. He, alongside his sister, Princess Daenerys Targaryen, can be found laid to rest beneath the Red Keep.

Crowned King in his twentieth year of life, he was to be betrothed to Princess Morra of House Martell, but he quickly became besotted with the younger sister, Princess Meria Martell, not the intended which had been chosen for him, but one he claimed to love and would have no one else for a wife.

Rickon's appearance alone is seductive, with Tully red hair, Targaryen eyes, and pale Northern skin, many men and women of today still find the long deceased King to be an attractive man. Many will say that his eyes alone are what drew them to the King, that his eyes speak of love and happiness, and yet, many will say that they can see it, that lingering sadness which is said to have stayed with the King.

The Winter Queen, Sansa Stark, would be the muse of many of the Paintings the King created throughout his lifetime, many to this day still hang in the Red Keep, a good many more are kept hidden from the public. They stay that King Rickon never returned to the North, they say in his final moments he gazed upon the stone statue of his Mother, who stood in the garden and when at last his final breath left him, he found peace.

* * *

 **Winterfell, the ancestral home of House Stark, and the seat of the King in the North. For as long as he has understood who he is, Rickon has been thought that this will not be the throne on which he sits, that this shall never be the crown that he will lay claim too, that although he was born of the Wolf, that he shall always be a dragon.**

Amethyst eyes were what marked him a Targaryen, if not for his accursed eyes he would be a Stark, a wolf, but because he had been born with eyes that burned like fire he was named a dragon. It was not until the twins were born that he came to realize just how outcasted he and Marg truly were, for no one who looked a Targaryen was truly welcome in the North.

"Be rid of them one day."

"They don't belong."

"Their Aunt should have taken them."

"Dragons don't belong in the North."

"They're not wolves."

He had heard many whispers within the castle walls. Some of those whispers came from trusted bannermen, lords and ladies visiting, even those who lived within Winterfell itself whispered of their hatred for him and Marg both. Nothing either of them did could ever change how they were seen, nothing they accomplished was ever right and no matter much they wished to exist as part of the North, they were the outsiders.

"It's you and me," he'd tell Marg whenever the two of them heard the whispers because he was her brother and it was his job to protect her, but sometimes only his Mother's embrace could erase all that had been said, only she could remind him that he belonged and that he was truly wanted and loved.

"I love you," she would say and nothing anyone else said mattered.

She was his world. The one person he knew would always love him unconditionally, who would always be there for him when the world around him became too much.

When Lyra was born, he was old enough to fully understand just how different he was to siblings named Stark. Where the household cooed at the sight of his Stark siblings, Rickon saw that himself and Marg were unwanted and ignored, nothing new, but still confusing for him at such a young age.

Only once had the whispers ever became too much for him to bare. It was when he overheard some of the maids telling one another how now they could be rid of him now that the Norths true heirs had been born, how the Queen would finally send him south where he belonged, that it all became too much.

He'd not made it past the gate, the guards escorting him back inside when he'd foolishly revealed what he intended to do. His Mother's face, when it was revealed that he tried to run away, was how he came to make a vow to himself that he would never again cause such an expression to cross her face.

Sansa, for all the sorrow that showed across her face, had but one question for him. "Why?"

Children are honest in ways adults can never be, they answer without thinking through on whether they will be held accountable for their words, so when they speak, their words are taken to heart.

"You don't need me anymore," Rickon said, unable to meet her gaze, afraid of what he'd find in those eyes he loved so dear. His own eyes were slowly filling with tears, making his vision blur slightly as he tried to hold them at bay.

"That's not true," Sansa said softly, falling to her knees, her hand tilting his chin so that he had no choice but to look into the striking blue eyes of his Mother. "I will always need you, and I will always love you, and I know that one day I will have to let you go, but until that day dawns, I will keep you close," her arms pulled him close, her words now being whispered in his hair. "But know that my heart shall follow you should we part."

He never doubted his Mother's love for him after that, never thought to ever leave, because it was in that moment that he knew that one day, he would have to part with his Mother. That there would come a day when goodbyes would be said, and he would leave and likely never return.

Never had it occurred to him that he would lose her so early on in his life, for Sansa had been the moon, a brightness he had sought to lead him, and for a time, without her, he became lost to the dark.

* * *

 **Sometimes even knowing you are going to lose someone, you still manage to waste what little precious time you have together, for Rickon, this was never the case. He knew he would one day go South, knew that it would be many moons in between when he would see those he loved, and so, he stuck close to the one person who he knew he would miss most of all, his beloved Mother.**

Going South was never a journey that he enjoyed, but one that needed to be made each year. The Southern Queen, his aunt, wanted him to see what he would one day rule. Usually, his Mother accompanied them, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and one of them always stayed behind.

His Mother was almost at full term in her pregnancy, and so was in no condition to journey to Kingslanding. While Rickon would love nothing more than to stay in Winterfell, he has no choice but to travel South, least his Aunt come for him herself, which she has had to do on more than one occasion when he was younger.

"It is a celebration, you should at least try to enjoy yourself," Sansa spoke as she watched him pace the room. A habit he'd picked up from Davos most likely, the man had a tendency to pace when he was thinking things through. "You need not worry about me, Rickon. I shall be here when you return."

Rickon stopped, falling to his knees before her as she sat knitting for the new baby which would soon join them. "I've had this horrid feeling that something isn't right. I fear that something shall happen and I won't be here when it does," if his words alone did not covey the fear he felt, then his eyes surely did.

Sansa always said that he could not hide his feelings from her, for his eyes were so expressive, and she had learned long ago how to read what lay hidden in those dazzling eyes which she loved so dear.

"I will make you a promise, and may that put your mind at ease," Sansa began, voice soft and gentle, allowing him to take her hand. "I will wait for you, and when you return, I shall be standing in the courtyard, ready to welcome you home."

His brows frowned and the grip he'd taken on her hand tightened. "I will hold you to your word."

Sansa's smile turned into a grin, one which immediately made him suspicious. "I am told that every Lady in the land intends to have you as their own," she giggled when his cheeks took on a rosy shade, so much like his Father, she would muse to herself. "But know this, no matter who you marry or who you fall in love with, no woman shall love you as much as I love you."

He did not doubt her love nor her words, and yet still to this day, those words reassured him that all in the world was right. Words of wisdom for all they shall be useful in life can never compare to words of love and devotion, for its such little words which make us live, and dare to dream of tomorrow.

Jamie Lannister had once spoken to him about the fierceness of a Mother's love. How a Mother loved her children above all else, and that there was none who could ever love a Mother's child more than she, it just wasn't possible. He spoke about his Grandmother, of the courage and fearlessness she'd showed when risking her life for that of her children.

He had no reason to believe that when he returned she would not be there, that he would never again see her smiling face nor hear her soft-spoken words of love.

Grief did not seem a fitting word to describe the pain that lingered in his heart, and while many would tell him that his heart would heal, it never quite did.

For years to come, he would feel a certin emptiness, if one could call it that. He had been a happy child, not overly fond of those outside the family, but one who smiled and laughed, who had many happy memories to look back on, but those memories which were once treasured only seemed to bring him pain now.

In his pain and anger, he pushed those he loved more than anything away, for the thought that he could lose them too, did not bear thinking about, and so, he tried to not love them. It was harder than expected, he had though his love for them all would simply vanish with time, of course, such things are not to be.

To know that you can simply lose the one you love is a truly heart-rending and agonizing moment of clarity we all must experience in life. To come to the realization that you, who love them dearly can do nothing is something that can break a persons spirit.

The mind is complex in that even though you know that you could have done nothing, you still think of ways that you maybe could have changed the outcome of what happened.

For Rickon, this was very much the case. His mind frequently tried to come up with maybe's and could have's, and when that did not work, he turned to blaming the people who were there, at her side, who had not saved her.

Really, the person he blamed most was himself. He had known something was wrong, but could never actully have guessed or predicted such an outcome, but still, he blamed himself. He had been feasting in Riverrun, laughing joyously with his siblings and greatuncle while his Mother lay on her deathbed, breathing her last words, and thinking of him and the promise she had made him.

His greatest regret was that he had not been there. That it was his fault that his sibling and he had not been there by her side when she needed them most. If only he had been born a Stark, then they would not have had to leave Winterfell, they would never have needed to travel South because he would not be future King, and his Great-aunt would not have demanded he come South to celebrate.

Of all of those in the south to offer him comfort, it was the most unlikely that stepped forth.

The Hound had been waiting for him upon his arrival to Kings landing. His massive form blocking the way into the chambers which housed Rickon whenever it was he journeyed South.

"So it's true," The man said when Rickon came to a stop before him. The man was only slightly taller then Rickon himself, and while Rickon was the younger, fitter man, he also knew that the warrior still lurked inside the man before him.

"You knew my Mother well, did you not?" Rickon asked, wondering why else such a man would come to see him.

"Aye," There was an echoing sadness in that one word. "I knew her when she was still a girl, her head filled with dreams of knights and happily ever after, but she soon came to realize that such things don't exist."

Rickon knew of the past and did not wish to hear about the horrors his mother had faced in the castle that would one day be his own. "It has been a long journey if you would excuse me."

He had heard the whispers that Clegane loved his Mother, although the man himself had never said so, Rickon could tell that Cleagane was grieving. For a single moment, he wondered just how many people grieved the loss of his Mother, the Winter Queen.

How many had he seen mourning as he fled, as he ran from all the heartache and pain? How many had he seen shed tears, and yet could those people's pain ever compare to the pain his own heart felt since he had come to a halt in that courtyard.

Alone in his chambers, he was free to express all the sadness he had kept locked away in his heart, for his tears were of sorrow and loss and they were not meant to be shared with just anyone, but still, he was not alone.

In the darkness of night, his aunt came into the room like moonlight sneaking past the trees. Never once speaking a word as she held him close like his Mother had once done.

"A part of me is missing," he whispers in the darkness as a hand too small to belong to the person he so desperately wishes were there, runs through his tangled hair.

"Time will heal such wounds." These are the words she will tell him over the coming moons and his answer, for the rest of time, remained the same.

"There's this emptiness that won't go away, one I've tried to make it go away and yet it never leaves."

They say time heals all wounds, but that's not exactly true. Losing someone you love isn't a wound which can be healed, it's a pain which lingers and stays with you through a lifetime. Maybe you find a way to live with that pain, and maybe you find others to love and fill your heart again, but that space will always be empty.

* * *

 **There are many ways to remember a person, be it from stories toward in their name, paintings which capture their image, poems and songs wrote about their lives, and statues, built so that they might never be forgotten.**

When first he had seen the statue of his Mother in Winterfell so long ago, his heart had throbbed with a pain he had never known, that pain still rings clear as he sees exactly what it is his siblings have sent to him in the form of a gift.

They had captured her essence into the stone, her gaze so familiar, her outheld hand a gesture which had been filled with love. She was not but a stone statue and yet, he loved her as if she were alive.

This stone figure represented the person who had loved him most in this world, the love which she had so freely given to him in his early years was one he cherished.

"Brother," Lyra said as pulled the hood of her cloak down, revealing dark hair and pale skin. She had barely grown since he had last seen her, but her face was not that of the girl he had left behind, but of a woman. She was no warrior, like Marg or their aunt Ayra, Lrya was very much the lady Sansa had raised her to be, carrying herself like a true Northern Princess.

It was not the first time his sister had found him in the garden gazing at the statue of their Mother since it had been set in the garden days ago. He found himself spending almost all of his free time here, alone, where he could speak words that he had held for too long in his heart.

"What do you see?" He said, knowing the horrors that had been committed against his mother in this place, a place in which he intended to spend the rest of his life. There was no way for him to rid this place of all the horrors that had taken place.

"I have seen her smiling, her laughter echoing like chimes in the wind."

Rickon scoffed, Lyra's words left a taste of ash in his mouth. "You need not lie."

"You lie to yourself thinking that she was not happy here." Lyra began, as she laid her palm into Sansa's stone hand for merely a moment before turning to Rickon. "You shared many memories here with her. You of all people who stood by her side should remember her smile as you walked these gardens, her laughter as you would play together, you think that the horrors committed here could ever compare to the moments you both shared?"

It had never occurred to him that the memories he'd shared with his Mother here would somehow be stronger than those of her younger years. He knew that the visions that Lyra saw were memories so powerful that they could connect her to a time and person. Lyra focused on Sansa, so these were the version that came through more clearly, but Rickon wondered what else his sister had seen while here?

Sometimes history was best left in the past, but for Lyra who sometimes had no choice, the past could very much be her present.

"Tell me, please," Rickon asked, swallowing as his mind whirled with the memories that had happened right, in this very garden.

"You were playing," Lyra began, eyes flicker upwards towards the darkening sky. "And she was sat on a blanket, not far from where you chased Ghost." The wolf had been dead for many years, but his name still brought with it a sense of loss.

"It would have been my first time in Kingslanding. Father had wanted to bring me, but I threw such a fit that Mother traveled with me instead." He recalled with a smile. "Father wasn't around much when I was still a boy, always needing to travel between here and Winterfell while the land settled after the war, it wasn't until after you were born that he finally settled into his role as King in the North."

Lyra hummed, she probably knew everything he had already said, but still, he felt like the words needed to be spoken out loud.

"I know you love him, Father that is, but I would hear it in your words why it is you can't go back."

His sister, so sweet and understanding, had most likely been the only one to never judge him for his decision to leave.

"I am haunted by regret," He told as he gazed upon the face of the woman who all knew as the Queen of Winter. "By the actions, I took against my family, and though you have forgiven me, I do not know if I can ever forgive myself." His gaze finally fell, ashamed as the stone eyes of his Mother gazed upon him. "I shamed Mother with my actions, and I fear what might lay in Father gaze."

"Fear," Lyra began, pulling the hood of her cloak back up around her, her face hidden in the darkness. "Is meant to be conquered."

Her cloak swirled around her as left him to his thoughts.

Without thought, he reached out to place his palm in the stone outheld hand of Sansa.

"I love you." The stone is cold to the touch. " I miss you." How much he would give to hear her whisper such words back to him.

The past could never be changed. Deeds done could not be erased, but maybe he could amend some of the wrongs he had made in his haste to escape the pain and sorrow that he thought only he felt.

* * *

King Rickon Targaryen, first of his name and ruler of the six kingdoms was buried beneath the Red Keep, his sister, Princess Daenerys Targaryen can be found standing across from her brother. The two are the only children of Winter not buried in The North.

A man well loved throughout history, children from all over the seven kingdoms learn of his rule and many have spent their lives trying to unravel some of the myths around the man, dubbed the 'Red Dragon.' There is no short supply of painting depicting the Targaryen King, but many focus on the paintings the King himself crafted while sitting before the statue of Queen Sansa in the garden.

They say he spent much of his time in Sansa's Garden, named after the Queen of Winter, Sansa Stark, and while little is known about the relationship he held with his Father, new evidence places the Winter King, Jon Targaryen, in King landing, during King Rickon's rule.

The royal family has given no comments so far on the evidence which lead researchers have come forth with, and so many still wait with eager breath to find out whether or not the estranged Father and Son ever did manage to reconcile.

Records state that the King died while in the garden, gazing upon the stone statue of his Mother. What no record will tell, is that while he sat on the bench, his gaze fading, his body growing lax, that the figure of a tall red-haired woman wandered through the garden, the ghost of a woman long since passed, a Mother, who could finally fulfill a promise which long ago she had broke.


End file.
